


Springboard Helix

by paleogymnast



Series: Helix 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 81,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet Jensen Ackles, a poverty rights lawyer with an over-active imagination and an insatiable science fiction addiction. He worries constantly about his husband, Misha, and best friend, Jared, who always seem poised on the brink of disaster because of their politically controversial work for an environmental nonprofit. Jensen’s solution? Escaping the exhausting repetition and stresses of everyday life with vivid fantasies in which he stars as a sci fi action hero.</p><p>Only, in Jensen’s world, nothing is as it seems. After finding a mysterious paperweight in Misha’s briefcase and surviving a car accident through an impossible sequence of events, Jensen is about to discover how deep his personal rabbit hole goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Springboard Helix

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:**  
>  For the lovely art by [votaku](http://votaku.livejournal.com) that accompanies this story, please visit the art master post [here](http://votaku.livejournal.com/13458.html). Thanks very much to Votaku for all your patience and for the awesome art you made to go with this story!  
> Springboard Helix is a very self-aware, somewhat meta, science fiction smorgasbord. It was inspired by everything and anything I ever saw or read from film to television to fanfiction to fairy tales to comic books. Jensen, our main character and narrator, is a science fiction addict who digests the world around him through the lens of his favorite sci fi (or SF) heroes. As a result, there are lots of sci fi-themed jokes and references throughout the story. Some are obvious, some obscure, and some may make sense only to me. If you see something you don't get, let me know--I'm compiling a compendium of sci fi jokes and references in this story, and will post it later this summer. I'll try to make sure I catch everything, but if you see something you just don't get, please let me know! That way I can fix it sooner.
> 
> The overall structure of this story's universe was inspired by all my favorite science fiction. If you see similarities to "Stargate" the books of Madeline L'Engel or X-Men comic books, that's probably what inspired me. I hope I've come up with an eclectic twist in putting this sci fi 'verse is put together, and I hope you'll enjoy it!

**Springboard Helix**  
 **Chapter 1:**  
 _Standing still, looking out on the twinkling points of light, only the thinnest of transparent panels separated him from the near vacuum beyond. Space—emptiness, but not, a perfect blend of darkness within light—stretched out all around him. He was alone, just him and his ship together in the black. Every possible vector, would lead him into the undiscovered country and whatever adventure it would bring. He could fly faster than light to that blinking, pinkish star, right over there. He could reach out and—_

“Jensen. Ground control to major Jen, _hello_!”

Jensen started, jumping half an inch in his seat as the blinking pinkish star resolved itself into the flashing voicemail light on his desk phone.

“Jensen,” Alona’s voice sing-songed again, the note of exasperation in it suggesting she’d been calling his name for at least a minute.

Jensen looked up and focused on the swinging curtain of her long, blond hair as she leaned over his desk, resting her elbows precariously on the narrow strip of wood free of papers, files, and clutter. She was smiling at him, not annoyed, even if _he_ was angry with himself.

“I hate to interrupt your Walter Mitty moment, but we need you up front,” Alona said apologetically with a hint of deviousness in her voice.

Her words sunk in, and Jensen scowled. “I thought we had a full complement today?” In the first two weeks of January they’d had a hell of a time staffing the drop-in clinic with law students, but now that both the UW and Seattle U were back in session with their pro bono recruiters (guilt-trippers) hounding the school’s respective student bodies in force, the office had been having the opposite problem. They were positively overrun with eater volunteer interns (or “externs” if they were getting school credit). It wasn’t that they didn’t have enough _work_ for the students. There was always more work to do Jensen worked for poverty law non-profit Alona had founded with a fellowship and a handful of grants when she’d graduated from law school. They were just running out of space to put the students and attorneys to supervise them.

So this didn’t make sense.

Alona smirked. “Oh, we do. But Mrs. Costa is out there—”

“Ugh,” Jensen let his head thunk back against the top of his chair back. He should have known.

“—And she’s demanding to talk to you. And before you ask, no, I couldn’t say you’re not here.” Alona held out her hand placatingly while she shifted, scooting onto the desk with her right hip. “She knows your schedule. She saw you coming out of Starbucks earlier with your,” Alona reached out and grabbed the cup perched near Jensen’s right hand on a tattered copy of _The Bluebook_ and turned it so the label was facing her, “five shot, nonfat, not-too-hot latte.” She ended with a snort and gave him a scolding glance.

Jensen snatched the cup away from her and took a sip.

Alona chuckled with amusement. “She knows that means you’re back from lunch.”

“You could say I had a court appearance?” Jensen hedged.

Alona swatted him—”Wrong day for a calendar in front of any of the judges you’re likely to have cases in front of, _and_ you told her you’d be available Wednesday afternoon. Besides, do you really wanna get written up on ethics charges for avoiding your client—”

“Hey, she’s the organization’s client, and she doesn’t have any pending matters before us—” Jensen sat up a little, the light bulb flicking on in his head as a victorious smile spread across his lips. “In fact, I bet we need her to sign a new release and limited scope representation contract, seeing as it’s a new year!” Okay, that sounded way too excited even to his own ears. He slumped back in the chair again. He really didn’t mind or resent talking to Mrs. Costa, not in the slightest. She was a sweet old lady who was just lonely and had an asshole for a landlord. The landlord couldn’t seem to be bothered to follow most laws unless he was first _reminded_ of his responsibilities by a sternly worded letter from someone with a state bar number.

Yes, Mrs. Costa liked to talk and talk and occasionally terrorize people with her walker, but she wasn’t mean or even all that difficult to work with if you got to know her.

It just required a certain mental space and Jensen… he found himself slipping back into the daydream, the broad expanse of stars in front of him promising something—

“Come on, _please_ Jensen,” Alona said, nudging his arm. “Don’t make me order you,” she scolded. “You know Mrs. Costa’s paperwork’s current. You filled it out with her last week. Besides, she’s already made two 1Ls cry and the rest are huddling in groups and _avoiding_ her.”

Jensen had no doubt Alona was telling the truth. To the uninitiated Mrs. Costa really was pretty scary when she wanted to be. “What about 2Ls or 3Ls?” Jensen asked hopefully. Most second and third year law students who volunteered had been coming here since they started law school and had more _experience_ with Mrs. Costa and knew she wasn’t as vicious as she seemed.

“Yeah, nice try. They all know better. She’s borderline _abusive_ to anyone who isn’t you. You’re the only one she trusts. Seriously, Jensen. She hardly gives me the time of day.”

Jensen slumped forward, propping his elbows on the edge of his desk and resting his face on his palms. He let out a harsh breath. “Yeah, okay.” He peered up at Alona. “Just give me a minute.”

The concerned look was back in Alona’s eyes in an instant. “Okay, what’s wrong?” She asked, squeezing his shoulder and leaning back, scrutinizing him. “You don’t usually slip that deep into your little fantasy world in the middle of the afternoon. Do you need a day off? More?” Alona was almost babbling, gesturing with her free hand as she spoke. “Some time to go on a romantic get away or to watch a sci fi marathon or play hours of mindless video games?”

“Hey,” he scolded half-heartedly, “Video games are not mindless!”

Alona broke out of her lecture and grinned mischievously, letting go of his shoulder with a move somewhere between a light tap and a half-punch. “No, they’re not,” she agreed playfully, her mood lifting a little. “But you know I’m serious about avoiding burnout. You’re no good to anyone, including yourself, if you’re exhausted, miserable, and depressed.” Her voice regained its serious edge.

“I’m not,” Jensen protested.

“Then what is it?” Alona pried—her face visibly softening from “boss” mode into “friend” mode.

Jensen shrugged pushing back from his desk. It was ridiculous he was letting this get to him. He laced his fingers together behind his head and glared at the piles of paper spread across his desk. “It’s Ms. Friedman.”

“Her SSDI application?” Alona asked with a hint of surprise, clearly racking her brain for some detail that would make the situation click.

“Not the disability application itself so much—although I have heard the ALJ handling her appeal can be a bit difficult.” Jensen bit his lip and met Alona’s eyes. “Ms. Freidman lived with her brother for the last five years, right up until he wound up in prison. He’s the person in the best position to vouch for her condition during that time and how she got worse.”

Alona bobbed one eyebrow as if to say “and.”

Jensen sat up abruptly, his chair jerking forward with the motion. “So, her brother’s apparently, supposedly in a restricted communications unit—”

Alona inhaled sharply.

“—We think the one in Terre Haute. But for some reason, we seem to be able to get even less confirmation, communication, or information out of the BOP than even _I_ expected.”

Alona let out a breath. “Have you tried contacting his attorney?” She asked, voice tight.

“Well, that would have been my first move, but Ms. Freidman’s not sure if he ever had one, if he had a trial, or what he’s charged with or convicted of. And so far, I can’t even get the prison to verify if he’s there or not. At least if we had that, we could definitively explain why she’s unable to get a declaration from him.”

“You want me to see if we can get Nikki involved?” Alona offered.

Alona’s partner was a lawyer too, and her practice was in prisoner’s rights. Nikki consulted from time to time when their cases overlapped, but she barely had enough time for her own organization and clients, so Jensen felt really guilty about dragging Nikki into any more work, especially work that was— _dangerous_ —for lawyers. And if anything was dangerous, poking into the barely understood black boxes of restricted communications units where the “rule of law” didn’t necessarily follow certainly was. “I—I don’t want to ask Nikki unless there’s no other option.”

Alona glared at him.

“Okay, look. Let me try one more letter. The hearing’s in six weeks. If I give this a week—ten days maybe—there’ll still be time for Nikki to step in if they don’t respond. I’ll ask Ms. Freidman, get her permission to consult with Nikki in the meantime,” Jensen conceded, holding up his hands.

Alona nodded, but she didn’t seem satisfied. She leaned there, looking at Jensen as if picking him apart, piece by piece, peeling back the layers. “There’s something else you’re not telling me. Something else that’s got you bothered,” Alona concluded.

He sighed in defeat. “We’re not sure, but we think Ms. Freidman’s brother is where he is because of ecoterrorism charges.”

Alona’s eyes widened, but she didn’t need to say anything. She understood. “Look, I’ll stall Mrs. Costa a little while longer. You take five, ten minutes. Call Misha. Hear his voice. Relax. Confirm for yourself that he’s still safe, that his campaign against global warming hasn’t landed him on someone’s most wanted list. When you’re done, then you can come soothe Mrs. Costa—if she starts monopolizing your afternoon, I’ll rescue you.”

“Okay,” Jensen agreed, his voice distant, nodding mostly out of reflex.

Alona didn’t move.

“Okay,” he said more firmly. “I’ll call. See you up front in a few.”

Alona inclined her head at him and rose from Jensen’s desk. She paused in the doorway, curling her long fingers around the doorjamb and leaning back over her shoulder to glance at Jensen. “Jen, seriously, take Friday afternoon off. Spend the weekend with Misha, and get that haunted look out of your eyes. This job’s stressful enough. Don’t torture yourself.”

“Okay, I will.” He inhaled slowly, trying to will some of the tension away. “I’ll take Friday afternoon—and the weekend off.”

Alona smiled. “Good,” she said and left.

As soon as she’d cleared the doorway, Jensen began digging through the top layer of paper looking for his cell phone. He was thrilled, really pleased, that he’d married someone who loved his job—his work—as much as Jensen loved his own. But sometimes, he wished Misha was some other kind of climatologist, and not the sort whose work included a lot of activism and grass roots organizing and noisy papers that treaded close to the boundaries of what made governments really, really upset. Jensen would sleep easier—and probably escape into sci fi less—if that were the case. But that wasn’t _his_ Misha. That wasn’t the Misha who teased him for going “darkside” because Jensen was in a profession regulated by the state and had spent two years clerking for judges. That wasn’t the Misha whose eyes lit up when he talked about carbon sequestration technology and international policy. That wasn’t the Misha he’d fallen in love with.

Jensen pressed “send” and waited for the ringing phone to connect.

“Hello?” Misha’s voice asked in the distracted tone that told Jensen Misha hadn’t bothered to look at the caller ID before answering.

Jensen smiled, relief flooding through him. “Hey baby. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

~~~

Mrs. Costa, as it turned out, was in a particularly good mood when Jensen met with her. She just needed him to go over the letter she’d already drafted giving her landlord notice that her tiny half-size refrigerator was malfunctioning again, and if he didn’t fix it within the statutorily prescribed time, she would be deducting the cost of repairing it from her rent. She’d been through the same song and dance so many times, the letter was more or less perfect, and all Jensen needed to do was type it up for her and reassure her it was okay.

She chatted for a little while, but she seemed to sense Jensen was apprehensive and preoccupied and left with a gracious “thank you” after only 45 minutes—it was practically a record.

Jensen wasn’t sure if Alona had warned Mrs. Costa off or if she was just perceptive of Jensen’s mood, but either way, he was grateful. He wound up having plenty of time to go through two drafts of the letter for Mrs. Friedman’s brother and still got it ready to go in time for the express mail pickup. Jensen didn’t remember much of his afternoon after that, but he managed to make it out the door at 6:00pm without slipping into his fantasy world again.

He’d been reassured by his brief chat with Misha, but the anxiety was closing in again by the time he arrived home.

He was happy—and completely unsurprised—to open the door to see Jared—one of his best friends and Misha’s partner-in-crime sitting on the couch swearing at a basketball game on the TV while delicious aromas and the clatter of dishes signaled Misha’s presence in the kitchen.

“Oh hey, here he is!” Jared called out as he set down his beer on a coaster on the coffee table in front of him.

“Hey Jen, we’re having vegan pesto penne with soy chicken strips and arugula and beet salad,” Misha shouted from the kitchen. “It’s almost ready.”

“Thanks!” Jensen called back as he made his way over to the couch and flopped down next to Jared.

Jared handed him an open bottle of beer.

Jensen looked at Jared skeptically and took the bottle—it was still cold.

“Dude, Misha opened it all o 15 seconds before you got in the door. We heard you coming,” Jared explained.

When Jensen still didn’t drink, Jared offered, “It’s vegan, Misha-approved. Just unwind, relax. The tension in your shoulders is making _me_ edgy.”

Jensen took a sip and let out a surprised, contented sigh when the beer turned out to be everything Jared had promised and really, really good.

“What, did you think I was going to give you warm beer after your better half tells me you’ve had a shitty day?” Jared asked rhetorically.

Jensen glanced over his shoulder across the counter into the open kitchen and glared at Misha, who was shooting him an unapologetic smirk. _Great, just great._ It wasn’t that Jensen thought Jared would _mock_ him, but it still made him vaguely uncomfortable when Misha talked to Jared about Jensen’s “insecurities.”

Jared didn’t seem to think their work was all that dangerous… or something. He always said not to worry, and he’d look out for Misha, which was never particularly reassuring considering Misha was _Jared’s_ boss, and as far as Jensen knew, Jared didn’t have any sort of super powers or magical government connections that could protect them from overzealous investigators and angry counter-protesters alike.

“Uh, my day wasn’t that bad,” Jensen answered, belatedly. “I just had some frustrating cases to deal with.” Misha made a half-hitch clucking noise that told Jensen Misha wasn’t buying it.

“Well frustrating is still pretty shitty in my book.” Jared retorted, giving Jensen’s shoulder a playful slap. He leaned towards Jensen conspiratorially. “Come on, if we gang up we can call dibs on the 360 and strong arm Misha into playing _Halo Reach_ ,” he stage whispered, one hand shielding his mouth.

“You do that, and I’ll hide all the Stargate DVDs so we only have the worst, most annoying clip shows to watch,” Misha snarked back.

“Hmm,” Jensen said, playing along. “We talking ‘Inauguration,’ bad or—”

“No, we’re talking “Out of Mind’ bad,” Misha cut him off.

“Ooh, touché. Harsh, boss, just harsh,” Jared protested, plunking down his beer and turning around, basketball game long forgotten. “And also an empty threat, because we could just watch online.”

“You know I hate _Halo_ ,” Misha said, voice tight.

Jensen was about to interrupt because Misha sounded more irked than usual and fighting over a videogame (he dismissed the adjective “silly” that wanted to pop into the description, ‘cause he took video games pretty damn seriously at times) was not on his agenda for a pleasant, relaxing evening. “Look, it’s—”

But Jared talked at the same time. “I know it offends your pacifist nature, and the vehicles make you nauseous,” he interrupted. “But boss, it’s just a game and _Jensen_ loves it.” The emphasis on Jensen’s name was dripping with meaning that suggested they’d discussed Jensen’s little freak out phone call in some detail. Possibly at length. “Besides, you’ll just kick our asses anyway.”

At that Misha smiled. It was a genuine grin that broke over his face and reached his eyes. “Tow on one,” he offered.

Jared looked at Jensen, who shrugged in agreement. “You’re on!” Jared said with a whoop of victory.

“But first, delicious pasta that I have spent many minutes slaving over a hot stove to make,” Misha replied, holding up a large serving bowl brimming with mouth-watering pasta and pesto sauce.

“I’ll help set the table,” Jensen offered, bounding to his feet with feigned enthusiasm—he was still too drained from his day to naturally achieve that level of perkiness—taking a long swig of beer and depositing the half-empty bottle on the table in their small dining area in an alcove to the right of the apartment’s entryway.

“Thanks, honey,” Misha said, holding out the salad bowl and tongs for Jensen to take.

Jensen crossed the room and greeted Misha with a quick peck on the lips that soon deepened, as Misha licked his way into Jensen’s mouth. Whining in frustration, Jensen reluctantly pulled back and took the salad. “Later,” he promised, catching the glint of lust and mischief in Misha’s eyes.

“I’d tell you two to get a room, but that’d be pretty rude considering this is your apartment,” Jared said smugly as they sat down to eat. “Pass the salad” he demanded, making grabby hands in Jensen’s direction.

“Just hold on,” Jensen teased, taking extra time to serve himself. “First, you go insulting us, then you go making demands? Nah-uh. You wanna do that do it at your own place.” Jensen frowned as he passed the bowl.

Jared’s forehead wrinkled in response, his eyes growing wide, giving him the appearance of a very confused puppy who’d just been reprimanded.

“Where’s Genevieve, and how come we’re here in our tiny place instead of at yours?” Jensen asked.

“Hey, this is _not_ tiny!” Misha protested with mock indignation.

That was true. Jensen’s law school apartment in San Francisco had been tiny. This place was palatial by comparison. “Well, it is tinier than theirs,” Jensen defended. He paused to take a bite of the pasta. “Mmm…”

Jared laughed, “Great food as always, boss.” He stuffed a big bite of salad into his mouth and continued talking around it. “For one thing, neither Genevieve nor I can cook like this. Second,” he washed the half-masticated salad down with a long pull of beer, “Gen’s at work—I think it’s something to do with her 20% project and a presentation next week?” he said uncertainly.

Jensen nodded. Genevieve, Jared’s wife, was some sort of software developer at Google. She spent a lot of time flying down to Mountain View for meetings and powwows and whatever else Google did at its very snazzy campus, but she got to spend 20% of her time working on whatever cool project she came up with.

“Anyway, you guys have better games, better movies, and a better entertainment system, so as far as I’m concerned, our place sucks in comparison to this,” Jared waved his beer bottle around encompassing the room. “Besides, Misha wouldn’t go for a place like ours even if you guys weren’t surviving on two nonprofit salaries.”

Jensen caught Misha glaring at Jared. He had the distinct feeling he was missing something, but he had no idea what. He got that feeling a lot when it came to Misha and Jared, and it almost made him jealous. He’d known Misha since he was in college. He’d been an undergrad while Misha was a Ph.D. candidate at the UW. Jensen had feelings for Misha even then, but they’d never gotten past the friends stage. He’d thought Misha wasn’t interested. And then Jensen had gone off to law school in San Francisco while Misha had done a post doc at the UW. They’d almost lost touch for a while only for Misha to contact Jensen out of the blue while he was still in San Francisco. Even then, they’d only been friends until they bumped into each other when Jensen moved back to Seattle. They’d hit it off immediately and had been together ever since—it would be eight years this coming August. But—and it was a big but—Jared worked with Misha. Ever since he started at Enviropreserve four years ago, he and Misha had been spending 40, 60, sometimes even 80 hours a week working together, bonding over grass roots campaigns, grant applications, and field analysis work. Sometimes Jared saw more of Misha in any given week than Jensen did. And while Jared was one of Jensen’s closest friends, thanks to their mutual addiction to all things sci fi, fondness for soccer, and love of video games, Jensen often got the sense Jared knew Misha better than he did. And that wasn’t fair, damnit. Misha was _Jensen’s_ husband!

“Well,” Jensen said at last, when the silence had grown awkward, “since Misha’s an Executive Director now, he’s doing a little better than your average nonprofit minion.”

Misha made a funny, strangled noise.

Jared shifted awkwardly.

Jensen wondered what he was missing, and they drifted off into silence again.

Eventually the conversation picked up, shifting instead to whatever Jensen could tell them about his work without breaching client confidentiality. Misha and Jared were both interested in hearing about the sorts of cases Jensen handled and the types of problems his clients encountered and what they and Jensen were able to do to work things out. The mood lightened considerably when Jensen got around to sharing amusing anecdotes about the newest crop of minions—externs—and their utter terror at interacting with some of the trickier clients. Before he knew it, the food was gone, their plates were clean, and Jared was victoriously setting up _Halo Reach_ in multiplayer mode. Jensen finally started to relax.

They played for almost an hour. Misha had the same strangely pinched look he always got when coerced into playing, while Jared bitched nonstop about how _awkward_ the set up was with three players.

Jensen had fun tag teaming with Jared despite his whining, but Misha still kicked both their asses. When Jared and Jensen were ready to concede defeat, they switched to watching DVDs and worked their way through a few non-clipshow episodes of Stargate. Jared kept a running commentary on every science fiction reference, while Jensen flopped and sprawled on the couch, sliding closer and closer to Misha as the night wore on.

Around 11:30, Jensen found himself dozing off, his head pillowed comfortably on Misha’s shoulder, Misha’s hand carding affectionately through his hair.

Jared stood and stretched, yawning. “I should be getting home,” he said. “I gotta work in the morning, and if I’m lucky, Gen will actually be home when I get there”

Jensen grunted, finding himself too tired and comfortable to form words.

“Night Jensen,” Jared said, squeezing Jensen’s shoulder as he shimmied past Jensen and Misha on his way to the door, almost tripping on the corner of the coffee table as he yawned again. “Night boss,” Jared called to Misha, looking over his shoulder and giving a mock salute, but spoiling it with a yawn.

“Night Padalecki,” Misha replied. “You sure you’re okay to drive? I need you fresh and alert tomorrow morning.”

Jared’s expression was one of exasperated incredulity. “I’m not that tired, and it’s not that far to go. Besides,” he waved a hand dismissively, “you don’t need me _that_ early unless you’ve scheduled something before 0730 that I don’t know about.”

Jensen wanted to chuckle at Jared’s use of military time. It was one of his more endearing quirks, picked up during a college internship where he worked with military personnel and got into the habit. It seemed to grate against Misha’s pacifist hippie style. Jensen just managed a weary smile instead. Jared did live pretty close—although he and Genevieve were in the up-and-coming, poshly trendy neighborhood of Cascade, while Misha and Jensen were sandwiched in one of the still-affordable-but-sort-of-nice apartment buildings squeezed between Eastlake and the upscale side of Capitol Hill, the two apartments were only a few minutes apart by car.

“Nah, nothing before 7:30,” Misha answered, his voice rumbling against Jensen’s ear.

“All right, see you in the morning,” Jared called, grabbing his jacket and heading out the door.

Jensen heard the door click shut as he started to drift off again, burrowing closer to Misha, curling into a ball and folding in on himself.

“Come on, none of that, up, up,” Misha prodded, stroking Jensen’s hair.

“No, I wanna stay here,” Jensen grumbled petulantly, only half awake.

“No you don’t. If I let you fall asleep on the couch you’ll bitch to me for days about how much it screws up your back. Besides, I kinda need to sleep in a real bed, and I can’t do that if you’re pinning me here,” he added fondly.

Jensen sighed and gave in. He was awake enough now to think more clearly. He yawned and stretched, unfurling, his back arching like a cat. “Why’d ya have t’get up so early tomorrow?” Jensen slurred around his yawn.

Misha reached out his hand to help Jensen up as he rolled off the couch. “I’ll tell you about it in a minute, but first,” he tipped his head and caught Jensen’s eye, “I want to know what happened today that had you freaked out.”

Jensen shot Misha a petulant glare. “Nothing happened. I wasn’t freaked out.” He followed Misha down the hall into their bedroom.

“Don’t argue semantics with me, Jen,” Misha scolded, as Jensen flopped onto their king size bed. Misha held up one finger, signaling Jensen to hold that thought and crossed the hall to retrieve their toothbrushes. “I love talking to you. I’m always pleasantly surprised to hear from you in the middle of the day, but I also know you well enough to know the difference between a ‘hi baby, I miss you’ call and a ‘holy fuck, I wanna make sure you’re still here,’ call. That call this afternoon was most definitely the latter,” Misha said, passing Jensen his toothbrush and returning to the bathroom to finish getting ready for bed.

Jensen stared blankly at the tooth brush in his hand, his mind was still drifting on the borders of full consciousness and couldn’t manage to coordinate grooming and thinking. He stumbled to his feet on auto pilot and followed Misha into the bathroom, leaning against the counter that held double sinks. It wasn’t until he’d gotten through mouth wash and washing his face and was stumbling back across the hall, stripping down to his boxers that he’d thought of what to say. “I’ m sorry,” he apologized as he slipped into bed.

Misha shot him a confused scowl as he slid into bed beside Jensen.

“I know you think I worry too much about the activism side of your work…” Jensen trailed off.

“No, I don’t, but—what happened?” Misha reached over and stroked Jensen’s arm.

“It has to do with one of my clients.”

“So you can’t say much,” Misha acknowledged.

Jensen nodded, “I have a client who has a relative who we _think_ is in a restricted communications unit, but we’re not sure. It’s like this person just vanished off the face of the earth.”

Misha winced and a flash of something _pained_ bloomed in his eyes.

“We think this person might have been involved in some environmental activism that got labeled as ecoterrorism, but we just don’t know.” Jensen shook his head again, this time in frustration. He rolled onto his side and scooted closer to Misha, resting his hand on Misha’s hip.

“Do you know what organization this person was working for or what they were doing?” Misha asked, his voice soft.

“No, and even if I did—”

“You couldn’t say,” Misha finished with a sigh. He bit his lip.

Jensen looked down focusing on the muscular lines of Misha’s chest, the familiar parallel scars that ran just below his pec on his left side—a remnant of an unfortunate encounter with plate-ice during Misha’s post doc—the knobby bone of Misha’s hip under Jensen’s hand. Misha was _his_ and he was here, real, solid.

“Hey,” Misha tapped his index finger under Jensen’s chin, lifting it so they were looking eye-to-eye. “I can’t make any guarantees, but I promise you. I’m always careful. _We’re_ always careful about the projects we take, the groups we work with, the funds we raise. I may not like to look over my shoulder or kowtow to censorship, but I don’t and will never do anything unnecessarily risky. I promise you,” he cupped the back of Jensen’s head with his palm, squeezing a massage where tension pooled at the base of Jensen’s skull. “I love you, and I take my vows seriously.” He closed the gap between them, capturing Jensen’s lips in a kiss, passion transforming it from reassurance to something more erotic, needy.

Jensen let out a little whine of pleasure when Misha tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth. He let Misha pull him in, relaxing as they lay torso to torso, skin to skin. By the time Misha pulled back for air, Jensen’s anxiety had waned, replaced by a flood of endorphins and heady lust. “I love you, too,” he murmured.

“I really wish we had time to do more tonight,” Misha sighed, his growing erection pressing against Jensen’s hip as he shifted, “but I do have to get up pretty early.”

“How come?” Jensen whined, remembering his question from earlier in the evening. “Alona wants me to take time off Friday afternoon through the weekend so we can ‘reconnect.’”

Misha snorted.

“Or something,” Jensen finished with a smile. “Don’t look at me like that. You know how she is about burnout. Am I getting the sense you’re not going to be around for any of this reconnecting?”

Misha grinned, but sighed, “I think I can manage this weekend, maybe even a little time Friday afternoon…”

“But,” Jensen prompted, he could hear Misha holding back.

“But, I’ve got meetings all day tomorrow, starting at 7:30 because we’re planning a field excursion starting next Monday.” Misha kissed Jensen’s forehead.

“Next Monday,” Jensen echoed, “as in the Monday following this weekend?” He looked up at Misha through his eyelashes.

“Yeah, that Monday,” Misha confirmed, regret stirring in this eyes.

Jensen pushed himself p higher on the bed, propping himself up on his elbow. “Isn’t that kinda short notice?” His stomach flipped, “Or have you known about this for a while and you forgot to tell me, or,” _crap_ , he thought, “did you tell me and I totally ignored you and forgot?” Jensen knew they could both get a little wrapped up in work and it wouldn’t be the first time one or both of them had utterly failed on the communication front.

“No, nothing like that,” Misha shook his head. “This is… there’s this new grant—remember I told you a few months ago that we’d applied for some government grants?”

“Yeah, I was surprised, and you seemed kind of ambivalent about it, which was why I wasn’t sure why you’d gone through the effort,” Jensen recalled.

“Well, we applied because the grants are for performing localized climate studies in a variety of locations inside the US and its territories—taking ice cores in Glacier National Park, measuring the levels of carbonic acid in surface waters, working with volunteers from the public to set up short-term temperature fluctuation monitoring—the whole idea is getting more data about places inside the US—making this a tangible concept for people in small towns, plugging holes, filling gaps, gathering the data that will make our activism much easier.” Misha’s eyes lit up when he talked about the project.

“Sounds a little like what you did for your post doc,” Jensen said, running his hand up and down Misha’s arm.

Misha seemed to still, stutter for a moment, but then he let out an almost imperceptibly small breath and smiled. “Yeah, it’s actually a _lot_ like my post doc.”

“Okay, so I get why you applied, but the hesitancy?”

“Was because it’s government funding. Tends to come with strings attached-the whole complicity in the government’s actions, you know how I feel,” Misha said, looking down at Jensen’s chest and the space between them.

“And what about the strings and Enviropreserve’s grassroots work and blogging and—” Jensen asked, his voice rising with concern.

“It’s okay. We pointed out the potential conflicts in our proposal, explained we’d need a way to keep our public speech separate, told them up front we couldn’t have any constraints, and they worked it out,” Misha said, smiling.

“Okay,” Jensen replied, dragging the word out, “but why the rush?”

“The funding came through this afternoon, actually right after you called. We have to coordinate with a few other organizations, including the Climatology faculty at the U, and we’re playing with schedule coordination, expected weather, tourists, you name it. We had some emergency meetings and it turns out we can either start Monday, or push our whole schedule back six months, which would cause a host of other problems,” Misha explained.

“So, it’s now or never,” Jensen murmured.

“Yeah, just about,” Misha confirmed.

Jensen just stared at Misha for a few moments, letting his eyes absorb every inch of skin, every feature. “How long are you going to be gone?” he asked at last.

“At least three weeks to start,” Misha admitted. He was fidgeting, fingers tracing an invisible path across Jensen’s pecs. “I’ll probably have to go back later, maybe not to the same place, but this is gonna mean more travel.”

“Where are you going?” Jensen asked.

“Somewhere in Glacier National Park, to start,” Misha answered. “We need to get some measurements taken before it gets any later in the year.”

“You’re going to miss Valentine’s Day,” Jensen realized. He was pouting. It was ridiculous—and Misha wasn’t big on commercial holidays—but they usually took Valentine’s Day as “relationship-building time” as Misha politely coined it. In other words, it was one day a year, they set work aside, stayed home, and fucked like bunnies.

“We can have our Valentine’s this weekend,” Misha suggested.

Jensen pulled Misha towards him for a kiss and didn’t let go until they were both panting. “I think we can do that,” he agreed.

“You wanna get the light?” Misha yawned in response.

Jensen swatted playfully at Misha’s shoulder. “Fine, don’t be enthusiastic,” he snarked, but got up to hit the light switch anyway. He slipped back into bed and curled around Misha bringing the covers up around both of them as they spooned.

Misha gave a contented sigh, but Jensen knew he hadn’t drifted off to sleep that quickly.

“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Jensen pleaded _sotto voce_.

Misha stiffened beside him; it was just for a second, then the sudden rigidity of his frame went as abruptly as it had come. “I will,” he agreed, squeezing Jensen’s hand where it lay around his waist.

Jensen couldn’t help thinking there was some undefined hesitation in Misha’s voice. It wasn’t until much later he realized it wasn’t Misha’s reluctance to be careful, but rather his recognition there was something to be careful _of_ that disturbed him.

~~~

 **Chapter 2:**  
They had their fun-filled weekend, with Misha reluctantly leaving at the end of it. Like so many separations before, they talked regularly, but Jensen missed Jared and Misha both, and he threw himself into work. Still, everything seemed okay. Two and a half weeks passed and nothing bad happened. Then Jensen got a frantic call from Jared explaining some protesters had gotten word of their climate sampling and it had gotten violent. Misha got hurt—breaking three ribs and his arm, the same arm and ribs he’d broken during his very klutzy post doc accident.

Jared was injured too, but mostly okay. Misha came home three days later, looking far more depressed and resigned than he should have been, in Jensen’s opinion. But Misha didn’t seem to want to talk about what happened, so Jensen didn’t pry.

~~~

  
Jensen still couldn’t shake the worry that had fallen over him since Misha got back from his grant expedition. There were always strings attached to government grants, and while Misha seemed to have avoided a lot of political and speech consequences; it was an unbalanced trade off if the timing and location requirements that the government was imposing instead meant Misha and his staff were subject to physical attack and injury. Misha seemed _okay_ , his ribs had stopped plaguing his every move and breath around the third week, but there was still the possibility he could get hurt again if he went back out in the field where “protesters” were resorting to violence, but to what end?

And maybe that was why Jensen couldn’t shake the nagging doubts, the looming fear the other shoe was about to drop and they’d discover Misha’s federal entanglements were too big to bear. _Why would a protester attack a researcher collecting samples and conducting interviews?_

The kind of work Misha was doing had the potential to make everyone happy. Taking samples, interviewing people, tracking data—he was working to answer questions. Climate change doubters could be happy because the breadth of questions asked arguably implied they were looking for alternate answers. The environmentalists could be happy because someone was finally out there gathering much-needed data that would go a long way toward enabling short-term modeling.

Were they incredibly misinformed? Was the government leaving Misha and his team out there without any shielding or protection—maybe hanging them out to dry like some kind of scapegoat? Something just didn’t fit. The climate change doubters tended to protest with pickets and _Bible_ passages. The so-called ecoterrorists tended to go after buildings, infrastructure, and materiel… not people. It was possible the local residents had just felt particularly threatened, but something about Misha’s injuries seemed too—precise—for a random, pissed-off, local, unless that local happened to be ex-military, perhaps? And then there was Misha’s reaction. Jensen was freaked out, yet Misha seemed oddly complacent, like he had expected the consequence and resigned himself to it. Jensen wasn’t sure what scared him more—that Misha expected to get hurt, or that he almost brushed off his injuries and the incident as if they were nothing.

Anyway he sliced it, the pieces just didn’t add up. Jensen had almost forgotten about his doubts within a few weeks. Misha was feeling better, but Ms. Friedman’s case wasn’t going well. Her hearing was coming up and Jensen still didn’t have the information he needed. They still didn’t know where her brother was.

~~~

Jensen was sitting on the couch in their living room leafing through exhibits while piecing together an affidavit for a client’s upcoming hearing when his phone rang. The process was slow going, and he kept drifting into daydreams about piloting his own starship in a space battle. It was late on a Sunday night and Misha had retreated to the privacy of their “office,” which was really the apartment’s second bedroom, to do something related to the government contract that seemed to consume his every waking moment. Jensen was starting to really wish Misha had nothing to do with the mysterious project, not only was it dangerous, parts of it were apparently so confidential Misha needed the office more than Jensen, which was why he was stuck on his couch surrounded by a sea of confidential documents.

His first instinct was to ignore the call—anyone who decided to call him at, he consulted his watch, 11:20 p.m. on a Sunday night deserved to be ignored. But it was his generic ringtone, which meant it wasn’t anyone who regularly called him. That could mean it was a wrong number, or one of those insidious fundraising telemarketers, or it could be something important. Reluctantly he reached forward and fished his phone out of the messy pile of papers and glared at the number he didn’t recognize. He touched the screen to answer the call and frowned again as he brought it to his ear, trying to figure out why that number felt familiar. “Hello?” he said uncertainly.

An automated voice answered and informed him he was receiving a call from the King County Jail and notifying him the call would be recorded and asking him if he would accept the charges. What surprised him was the name of the person who was calling him. It was Ms. Friedman.

“Oh shit,” Jensen muttered as he fumbled with the phone, almost dropping it as he toggled the number pad and frantically pounded 1 to accept the call. He was damn glad he’d had the foresight to enable his phone to accept jail and prison calls. “Hello?” Jensen stammered into the phone, hoping he sounded reassuring.

“Oh Jensen, Mr. Ackles, I—there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. My brother contacted me, and then the police, they said something about aiding and abetting, but I have no idea where Jamie even is, and I know you’re not usually a criminal lawyer and the paperwork I signed doesn’t cover this, but I don’t know who else to call, and the officer said something about arr—arraignment in the morning.” She finally paused to breathe, and Jensen seized the opportunity to jump in.

“You did the right thing, now take a deep breath and try to tell me what happened.” No sooner had he gotten the words out when Ms. Friedman was off, stammering out a rambling story about a call from her brother, Jamie, who’d said he was sorry and they were moving him, and he didn’t know where he was going. He’d sounded scared and strange to his sister. The police had shown up on her doorstep almost immediately after the phone call had ended and they’d demanded to know where Jamie was going. Ms. Friedman had been very confused because her brother’s call had led her to believe he was being transferred to a different prison, not escaping, and she’d gotten confused and frustrated and hadn’t responded fast enough—her interpretation of events—and one of the officers had grown frustrated, pulled out his cuffs, and arrested her for obstruction of justice. It was a misunderstanding of epic proportions, or more likely the police were frustrated and looking for a way to hold Ms. Friedman longer in case she did know something. With the right records, a sound argument, and a little luck, Jensen could either help the public defender get the charges dropped or do it himself. But there wasn’t much time and everything he needed was at the office. If they were fast tracking her arraignment, Jensen couldn’t afford to wait until morning, especially not if there was a chance he could get in to see Ms. Friedman tonight, which was a possibility if the police planned to question her further, or at least find out which public defender organization would be assigned to her case. They talked for the full 15 minutes allowed, with Jensen reminding her repeatedly that the call wasn’t confidential, so to save the details for when they could talk face-to-face. He promised to get to the jail ASAP, and had his client at least somewhat calmed down by the time he call disconnected. Jensen was left clutching the phone and wondering why the hell she was already in jail rather than sitting in a holding cell or interrogation room at the nearest precinct. The situation was fishy, felt wrong and dangerous somehow, just like everything else about the case.

Jensen just sat there, dumbfounded on his couch surrounded by a new layer of detritus formed by the scraps of paper on which he’d scribbled details from the call. He ran his hands through his hair, tugging as he sighed. Where to start? He had the names of the officers involved—well two of them—Ms. Friedman said there were four total—so he would be able to make some calls. First, of course, he needed to check with Alona, let her know what was going on, and make sure she was okay with it. Representation in criminal cases went a bit beyond the scope of their organization’s limited scope, and it was a bit beyond Jensen’s expertise. He was confident he could handle getting his client through an arraignment without incident or running afoul of any ethical rules, but if he couldn’t resolve this now, he was going to have to get Ms. Friedman to trust a public defender.

Ten minutes later he’d gotten the go-ahead from Alona with promised support from Nicki if needed, and had endured one incredibly awkward conversation with a rookie cop who had more or less apologized for the overzealous behavior of his training officer and then mumbled something about Feds and trying to hang onto witnesses for as long as possible. Jensen felt a little panicked and a little reassured. He had already gathered his papers and laptop into a haphazard pile and forced it into his messenger bag before he thought of Misha. He gave a longing glance in the direction of their bedroom and the comfortable night they wouldn’t be sharing with each other and headed towards the spare bedroom—

—Only to smack into Misha as he came scrambling out the door, jacket and briefcase in hand. “Whoa, sorry babe,” Misha stammered as Jensen made a disgruntled “oof.”  
“I was just coming looking for you,” Jensen explained. “There’s an emergency with one if my clients, and I have to go into the office tonight. So, I’m going and...”

“Whoa, just calm down, take a deep breath,” Misha instructed wrapping his hands around Jensen’s shoulders, steadying him.

Jensen immediately relaxed into the comfort of Misha’s touch.  
“You’re a great lawyer, babe. I’m sure you’ll do great. Just breathe for me, okay, you’ve got this deer in the headlights look that’s really out of place and it’s kind of freaking me out.”  
Jensen looked up then, seeing the genuine fear and confusion in Misha’s face, and slumped forward against his chest with a sigh, taking the kiss Misha offered, and losing some of his tension to it. “Sorry,” he groaned a few moments later after reluctantly pulling away. “This whole client emergency is really unexpected and it’s kind of throwing me.” He rubbed at the back if his neck in contemplation, focusing on Misha and taking in his appearance for the first time since their collision. Misha was dressed for work—not field work, but the office, wearing a crisp blue button-down shirt that brought out his eyes paired with black slacks and belt. Now that Jensen looked more closely he noticed a suit jacket and Misha’s overstuffed, worn brown leather attaché case dropped haphazardly on the hallway floor next to them. For all intents and purposes it looked like Misha was heading into the office on a meeting day at Midnight on a Sunday night. The only incongruous thing was Misha’s shoes. He was wearing a pair of polished black combat boots that usually lived in the bottom of a duffle bag, and which Jensen had rarely seen Misha wear. He was pretty sure those were “fieldwork shoes.” Jensen was stunned for a moment. “Wha—”

“That’s actually what I was coming to tell you. I just got a call... I have to go into work,” Misha said with a warm smile, seemingly amused by their mutual predicament.

“What, is someone hurt?” Jensen asked, worried, his gaze drawn to Misha’s left arm—the cast had only come off a week ago, and despite vigorous physical therapy, Misha’s left arm was still noticeably smaller than his right. Jensen doubted Misha would be so flippant and good natured if he was rushing into work because there’d been another attack on their researchers, but still...

Misha’s expression darkened at his question, but only momentarily. “No, everyone’s fine, we’re all fine...” he sighed. “There’s just a small emergency... elsewhere, and they need me in the office. I’ve gotta handle some things.” Misha ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it. He looked very, very weary.

Jensen could feel his forehead scrunching up, because everything felt _wrong_ about the situation in a way that made his stomach clench with fear... Not his usual worry about Misha and his work, but the bone-deep dread that had settled lurking just under his skin ever since Misha had announced Enviropreserve had gotten the government contract. “I don’t get it, you’re the boss, the executive director, you call the shots. If no one’s hurt, then why do you need to go anywhere? It’s practically the middle of the night, why can’t whatever it is wait ‘til morning?”

Misha cast him a sideways glance that brooked annoyance and... maybe disappointment, but not directed towards Jensen, more he looked like the interaction, the conversation, was a foregone conclusion. One he’d hoped would go differently, but predictably, it hadn’t. “It’s not the middle of the night everywhere,” he said fondly with a smile that seemed fake.

“But you’re—” In charge, Jensen was going to add, but something in Misha’s eyes made him stop. “This has to do with the grant—the grant that’s more like some kind of perverted contract, right? The government one? You’re not in charge of that, and when they—whatever government yahoos are calling the shots—tell you to jump, you ask how high.” He thought back to Misha’s carefully selected words, how he’d said “we’re all fine….” Jensen’s expression hardened to a glare. “Everyone who works for Enviropreserve is fine, but someone else isn’t. What, is it University staff, government workers, the locals this time? Or whatever organization or group attacked you guys?” He wondered aloud.

“No body’s hurt, it’s not…” He sounded like he was going to say “it’s not that contract,” but stopped himself.

Jensen didn’t particularly believe the “nobody’s hurt” part either because Misha hadn’t met his eyes when he said it. Frustrated, he felt his forehead scrunch up. He tried to shake it off along with the feeling of dread that had descended on him ever since Misha took this contract. Misha was being evasive now, _lying_ or almost… It made Jensen’s stomach twist up in knots and he really, really didn’t need that right now, not while he had a client in crisis mode.

“How ‘bout you? This can’t wait ‘til morning?” Misha asked, cupping his hand around the back of Jensen’s neck and leaning back to regard him closely. “Babe?”

Jensen would have objected to the abrupt change of subject, but the concern in Misha’s eyes was so obviously genuine, he pushed his questions aside and sagged into Misha. “One of my clients had an encounter with the police that went… sideways. The client’s in crisis mode, and I’ve got to prepare for an arraignment tomorrow morning. Even if an attorney from one of the public defender organizations takes over, I still need to get a ton of information together. It’s gotta be now.” Jensen sighed.

“You gonna stay at the office all night?” Misha ran one finger under Jensen’s chin, tipping it up and leaning in for a kiss.

“Mmm… yeah, especially if you’re not going to be home. It’s just… easier. I’ve got a pillow and blanket and clean suit in the office. I can nap, and then catch one of the seventy-something express busses into downtown in the morning.”

“Okay.” Misha sounded satisfied, but reluctant, and still concerned. “Just promise me you’ll try to sleep? You don’t want to scare your client.”

“I could say the same about you,” Jensen teased back.

Misha started to speak, seemed to think better of it, and shot Jensen a smile. They gathered the rest of their things—Jensen managing to cram everything he needed into his messenger bag—and headed down to Misha’s Civic hybrid and pulled out onto the street, making their way down to Eastlake and towards the University Bridge.

There wasn’t much traffic this time of night on a Sunday, most of the bars and restaurants had already closed, and the college kids had either headed back to their dorms or were holed up in one of the libraries studying. As a result, they were zooming along, driving a little faster than was strictly legal, and making great time, the short commute whizzing by in a matter of minutes.

The only downside was the traffic lights—they were still operative, even if there was no cross traffic, and Misha had to jam on the breaks to avoid sailing through the intersection on a red light.

“Thank you,” Jensen said fondly, not wanting to get a ticket on the way to helping out a client. He’d had enough excitement for a Sunday night, thank you very much.

“No problem,” Misha replied. He shot Jensen an adoring grin and then gunned it as soon as the light turned green.

“Hey!” Jensen protested, as Misha’s briefcase fell over onto his feet, popping open. An opalescent, silvery egg-shaped thing with inlaid flecks of green rolled out onto the floor. Jensen leaned over to pick it up before it rolled under his seat. “You almost lost your paperweight,” he added, as he popped back upright. “You want me to put this back in the briefcase?” And a cool and fancy paperweight it was. It was warmer than he’d expected, and he really couldn’t tell if it was plastic, metal, or made of some sort of mineral. It didn’t look like any gem or _geode_ he’d ever seen, but then again, Misha was always collecting strange things from his trips and fieldwork, so maybe it was some special stone with a unique history that Misha could tell him about.

Misha glanced over, his eyes widening when he saw what Jensen was holding. “That’s my spare paperweight,” he commented, a hint of something—nervousness, maybe?—creeping into his voice, but it was gone as quickly as it came, glossed and smoothed over. “Can you hang onto it until we get to your office, and uh, pick up my briefcase so nothing else falls out?”

“Sure,” Jensen said, already bending forward to peek in the foot-well again.

Misha grinned and turned his full attention back to the road.

They saw it at the same time: a black sports car, hurtling down the middle of the road doing at least 100 miles an hour was swerving into their lane. They were on the bridge, about to cross onto the narrow drawbridge section and there was nowhere to turn. No place to pull off, not enough time or room to go around. They were going to hit head on, and at that speed, they were all going to die.

Jensen couldn’t believe his life was going to end like this. _Seriously? I get called into work in the middle of the night on a Sunday, and then I die holding my husband’s paperweight, because we got hit by a drunk driver? Ms. Friedman is gonna be wondering what the hell happened, why no one’s coming to help her. Alona’s going to be pissed and devastated, and I haven’t talked to Jared in a week…_ And to think he and Misha had both been so busy with work, they hadn’t even spent time together this weekend. If he’d known it was going to be his last opportunity ever, he sure as hell would have fit in a quickie even if they were both busy and exhausted.

Acting on reflex, Jensen thrust his left hand out in front of him, his right hand still clutching the paperweight. He glanced over at Misha.

“Oh fu—” Misha was saying, already swerving, the car drifting into the start of a spin. It didn’t matter though, the black car was still going to hit them, and they were going to hit the side of the bridge, and probably flip…

It wasn’t fair, it— _No!_ , was all Jensen could think. He didn’t even notice the paperweight growing warmer in his hand.

He certainly didn’t see it start to glow.

He wanted to close his eyes against the impact he knew was coming, but instead he looked at Misha, needing to see him. Misha’s face was a mask of shock and denial, defiant in a way that made Jensen’s heart glow with love. It felt like he was _expanding_ , then there was a rush of wind and everything went black—and the car stopped with a lurch and a loud _pop_ , kind of like the _bamf_ sound Nightcrawler made when he teleported. There was a horrible crash followed by the sound of rending metal, breaking glass, and a loud explosion, but it was in the distance, and Jensen was staring through their now-cracked windshield at… bushes? But none of that made sense.

Jensen blinked, blinked again. The image didn’t change. _I’m still alive?_ he wondered uncertainly, shaking off the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion and disorientation to find Misha—

—Who was still in his seat next to Jensen. His hair was disheveled, and it looked like his seatbelt was pinning him back in his seat, but he seemed unharmed. In fact, _everything_ seemed okay… except for whatever that horrible explosion was behind them and the cracked window and _oh yeah_ , somehow they were on the other side of the bridge half in the bushes that ran along Pacific Street. How was that even _possible_? “What just—what just happened?” he found himself asking.

“Oh my god, Jensen?” Misha was saying, he sounded a little scared, and a lot shocked, and he was looking at Jensen’s chest or lap—just not at his face.

Was he hurt or horribly injured, and didn’t know it? Jensen glanced down. At first he didn’t see anything. He seemed to be all in one piece; he’d feel better once he got the seatbelt off, but wait… was his hand, _glowing_? His right hand was curled in a fist, still clutching to Misha’s egg-shaped paperweight to his chest, and it was glowing—pink and green light emanating from it, lighting his hand from within. “What the?” Jensen opened his hand and sure enough the paperweight had lit up… Well, that wasn’t so odd, was it? The little inlaid bits of green were actually lights, and there was some kind of light bulb inside the whole thing, making it glow pink, the _skin_ of the paperweight for lack of a better term still somehow shining an opalescent silver over it all. It was really cool! “Aweso—” he started to say, but a startled noise from Misha stopped him. “What?” he looked back at Misha.

Misha appeared frozen for a split second, as if in suspended animation. Then, in the span of a heartbeat, he was all motion. He already had his seatbelt off and the door open by the time Jensen realized he was moving.

“What’s going on?” Jensen tried again, feeling more and more lost. He was starting to wonder if this was some sort of dream—or maybe he really was dead, or near death, and this was a hallucination?

Misha was already out of the car though, his cell phone out of his pocket and tucked between his ear and shoulder, his hands full with some kind of tablet PC and dongle-thingy—it looked like something you’d find in the _Enterprise_ ‘s sickbay if you asked him.

“Misha?” Jensen called again, his voice shaking now. No, he was shaking all over. Adrenaline had flooded through his body only to be replaced by a few moments of relief and happy disbelief and now this— _fear_. He was scared and confused and disoriented on a level he’d never encountered before. Because he had no idea what was going on, and now Misha was holding science fiction props and acting bizarre, all because his stupid paperweight lit up? What the _hell_?

“Jensen, just stay still,” Misha called back, turning back towards the car and ducking down so he could see Jensen without the roof of the car in the way his phone was now clutched in the same hand as the dongle-thing. “Just don’t move.”

“I—I don’t think I’m hurt,” Jensen admitted. “Are you okay? Should you be moving?”

He could hear sirens in the distance, coming from the direction of the bridge which was still, somehow almost a quarter-mile behind them.

“Oh fuck, goddamn Seattle PD and Fire Department and their ridiculous response times! It hasn’t even been 90 seconds!” Misha was cursing, back arched, and hands thrown up towards the sky.

 

But Jensen didn’t know why, since wasn’t that a good thing? He still couldn’t figure out what had happened, but emergency services would help them sort it out, check them out, make sure they’re okay, right? He turned and looked backwards for the first time, and jumped, because beyond the—also cracked—rear windshield of Misha’s car, was another car, and a light pole, but both of _those_ were crumpled, for lack of a better term. The car was dented, it’s windows shattered, and the light pole was listing dangerously to one side, both looked like they’d been hit by some sort of shock wave. He glanced around more. No… the damage was localized; nothing else appeared to have been hit or damaged, except for a small tree, planted right next to the bush the Civic was inexplicably snugged up against. It was uprooted.

The orange glow caught his attention next.

 _Oh_ , and apparently there was a fireball on the bridge… right where it had _looked_ like they were going to hit that car. Or it was going to hit them… had it hit them and this was some very strange out-of-body experience? The shaking was growing worse now, and Jensen was immediately nauseous. He gulped trying to get fresh air, but everything felt too cold and too wet and—

—The wail of another siren—a fire truck, probably coming from the station up on 50th—pierced the night. Which meant they must have been encountering traffic; regulations said this late at night, they only had to run their sirens when…

But Jensen’s thoughts were completely derailed when he heard another “Goddamnit!” come out of Misha’s mouth, followed by something in a much _calmer_ , sterner tone of voice—one he’d never heard before—that sounded something like “Call ORDA ERT.”

“Misha?” Jensen tried one more time, but Misha wasn’t paying attention. He was standing outside the car, every hint of shock and surprise gone, replaced with a cool competence, that made Jensen shudder. Jensen watched as he checked something on the tablet one more time, shoved the Star Trek prop into his pocket, and held his phone to his ear.

“This is Lieutenant Commander Misha Collins, verification code Charlie Delta Seven Niner Tango.” There was a pause. “Yes, I know I’m expected at headquarters.” Another pause. “Is this a secure line?” Misha ran his right hand through his hair, the only outward sign of frustration. Whatever the answer it seemed to make Misha happy, or at least less _intense_ , because his spine relaxed, not quite sagging, but no longer ramrod straight. “I’m calling to report a Priority 1 Emergency. Exposure event. One new Marker identified; one civilian casualty. Point of contact is bi-focal with concomitant aperture damage on both ends. Yes, both. It appears the Marker opened an intraplanetary wormhole.”

 _Wormhole?_ Jensen thought blinking, sure he must have heard wrong, but then again, nothing about this made any sense.

It apparently didn’t make sense to the person on the other end of Misha’s call, because he was actually holding the phone away from his ear and glaring at it. Jensen could hear—squawking, for lack of a better term—coming from the other end of the phone.

“Lieutenant, l—Lieutenant Paige,” Misha was repeating into the phone in a voice that brooked no argument. “Yes, I know that’s unprecedented, but the readings confirm—” Misha actually _glared_ at the phone this time. “Lieutenant, do not argue with me. Emergency services will be on-scene any moment, and I can’t be in two places at once. Do not contradict me. If you make one more remark I’ll bring you up on charges for insubordination and endangering mission safety.” That seemed to get the response he wanted because Misha let out a long sigh. “Thank you. I’m sending two sets of coordinates. I need you to send a cleanup crew to the first one. Manage first responders, secure the scene, and collect readings—step on that one because fire’s already there. I need an assessment team and transport from the second, which is my location… No, no, I can manage until then. Just step on the first one. Recall Captain Padalecki and Dr. Cassidy, patch me through to General Ferris.” Misha actually stomped his foot this time. “Yes, I know she’s dealing with an emergency, but trust me when I say this emergency is slightly more immediate. That’s an order! … Thank you.”

Misha straightened again, visibly preparing himself. “Good morning, General, I’m so sorry to bother you…”

Jensen remained transfixed, unable to process what was going on, as Misha worked through the same nonsensical bits of information with this general person. He mentioned a few more names, something about a General Lane and a Colonel Peleggi and another Colonel Wallace, but none of it made any sense. He thought heard the words “Original-source WMD” and “Yes sir, _alien made_ , not one of ours.” But that made even less sense, so he hoped his ears were playing tricks on him, and let his attention drift back to something more familiar. One fire truck had already zoomed by, apparently on its way to the ridiculously large fireball that was still burning on the bridge, but he could hear sirens again, and he had a feeling they were coming here. It sounded like Misha’s call was coming to a close though, something about the rhythm and cadence of the exchange drew Jensen’s attention back.

“Yes, we do have an ID on the Marker,” Misha sighed, pinching his nose between his fingers, the façade of calm and energy cracking. “It’s—it’s Jensen Ackles… yeah, _that_ Jensen.… Well it’s a good thing, sir, or we would both be dead. I know… you too. See you at 0600. Collins out.”

Jensen was still frozen, blinking in disbelief, when the call disconnected and Misha let his hand drop to his side, the phone disappearing back inside his jacket. Misha looked _pained_ almost sick when he looked at Jensen; it made Jensen feel like he’d somehow done something wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what except somehow surviving a car accident and making a paperweight glow.

“Oh, babe,” Misha sighed, leaning forward, his right forearm braced across the roof of the car, his head falling forward onto it. “Never in a million years—”

A particularly loud siren blared nearby causing Jensen to flinch.

It seemed to snap Misha out of his momentary reverie.

“Misha?” Jensen said, almost squeaking. “What. The fuck. Is going. On?”

“I’m sorry…” Misha started, glanced over his shoulder, and turned back. Creepy, cool and competent Misha was back. “Jensen, I need you to give me the WMD right now, and close my briefcase.”

“W—WMD?” Jensen glanced down at his hand. “Are—are you joking? This—this isn’t a weapon of mass destruction.”

Misha cringed. “No, it’s not, but it is a wormhole making device, and I need to conceal it before the LEOs arrive.” He reached into the car.

Jensen pulled his hand back. “Who the fuck are you?” he whispered.

“I’m sorry Jensen, but there’s no time. You absolutely cannot be holding that when they arrive and—” tires squealed. “They’re pretty much here now. Just hand it over, and I’ll explain everything later.”

Jensen weighed his options for a split-second, suddenly more afraid of being caught with the shiny paperweight—WMD—than obeying this… pod person who had apparently replaced his husband. He held out his hand, feeling a sudden, unexpected loss, when Misha took it. He was also shaking more.

“Ah, crap,” Misha said when he noticed Jensen was shaking. He’d already tucked the WMD away inside his jacket. If he hid anything else in there, Jensen was going to make a crack about an interdimensional pocket, even though he really wasn’t in a joking mood because apparently Misha had the more props than Dr. Crusher tucked away in there.

“How long is this going to take, because… since we’re still alive, I _think_ , I kind of have a client who needs me and she just got arrested and her brother’s missing and she just needs her fucking social security—” Jensen was babbling, he was kind of amazed he had even thought of Ms. Friedman, even if he was accidentally blurting information that under the right circumstances could be considered a breach of confidentiality, but now he’d let go of the WMD, it was like everything that had happened before the accident—non-accident—whatever it was, had come rushing back.

“We’ll—just—fuck,” Misha said, glancing back across the street to where a squad car had just pulled up. “I’m betting your client’s last name is Friedman, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t—”Jensen replied jaw dropping.

“You don’t have to say anything and you didn’t do anything wrong… just looks like my emergency and your emergency were related. Look, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Pull out your phone, and call Alona. Tell her you have a family emergency and you’ve just been in a car accident and you’re okay, but they’re taking you to the hospital for observation and you don’t know when you’re going to be able to call her next. Then tell her what you’re supposed to be doing for your client—any detail you think she’ll need, tell it. Do not get out of the car. Do not open the glove compartment. Do not reach under the seats,” he reached inside the car, to the back seat, where Jensen’s messenger bag was teetering precariously. He unclipped Jensen’s phone from the bag, and handed it to him. “Do not talk to _anyone_ unless I tell you to, and do not make any other calls. I know you’re scared, and you feel like you’re going to puke, but if you can avoid it, please do. It will make _them_ ,” Misha hooked his thumb over his shoulder towards the approaching police officers, “suspicious and we don’t need that right now. Trust me. Okay. I love you, and I just need you to trust me. Okay?” He was reaching into his jacket again, this time pulling out something that looked vaguely like a wallet, but Jensen realized was actually some kind of badge and ID holder.

“O—okay,” Jensen agreed, bobbing his head, unable to manage anything more. He wasn’t sure he trusted _anything_ right now, Misha was at least less of an unknown than the police officers.

Misha was already walking away, towards the approaching uniformed officers. He had his hands held out to the side, placating, the ID holder already open in one hand.

The officers—two of them so far, with another two cars pulled up behind them yet to disgorge their occupants—were approaching cautiously, hands poised above their guns, but weapons still holstered.

“Good evening, officers,” he heard Misha say. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you not to come any closer. My name is Lt. Col. Misha Collins. I’m with the Oversight, Research, and Defense Agency, and I’m afraid this matter falls under our jurisdiction. I would love to answer your questions, but as a matter of national security, I cannot do that. I need to ask you to all return to your vehicles. I will be happy to verify our authority with your commanding officers.”

The first set of officers had retreated and the others had stopped outside their cars, one officer obviously reaching inside for the radio.

 _He’s done this before_ , Jensen realized. There was no hesitance or uncertainty in Misha’s behavior. He was a little rattled, but it was because of the specifics… because of Jensen, and whatever an _unprecedented intraplanetary wormhole_ was (Jensen wasn’t sure he trusted his imagination with that one), not because of _this_ , taking charge, ordering law enforcement around and expecting them to listen, knowing what to say, who to call, what to do.

Misha was showing his badge, and while one of the officers was inspecting it, Misha looked back over his shoulder and mouthed “Call Alona now.”

Jumping, Jensen fumbled with his phone, finding the correct speed dial. “H—hey, Nicki? Sorry for calling so late, can I speak to Alona, it’s kind of an emergency, thanks…”

~~~

Looking back, Jensen was never sure how he made it through the conversation with Alona. He was pretty sure he just parroted everything Misha had told him to say, his brain unable to come up with anything on its own. He never once dreamed of violating Misha’s order—and that’s what it was—either; instinctively he knew it was the only chance he had. The only chance for what, or why it was the only chance, he was kind of fuzzy on for a while, but the fluttery feeling in his gut commanded him to obey.

He’d thought Misha’s whole stunt with the sci fi props and the badge and the phone calls and the cops was pretty cool until the helicopter showed up—an honest-to-god black helicopter complete with commandos dressed in black uniforms, landed in the middle of the street. The commandos spilled out of it and quickly set up a perimeter. It was surreal, but he was finding it harder and harder to focus and the shaking was getting worse and worse.

At some point, Misha returned, accompanied by a shorter, stockier man in uniform, who he introduced as Lieutenant Colonel Kane. That was when Jensen started to panic, because Kane had plastic restraints, and he was moving towards Jensen as if to put him in them.

Misha had told him not to talk to anyone, but his lawyer training kicked in. “I—I don’t understand, am I under arrest?” he asked, pressing himself back against the door, wishing it wasn’t blocked by a bush on the other side, so maybe he wouldn’t feel so trapped.

Kane turned to Misha, “Hey Collins, some help here?”

Misha seemed to materialize out of nowhere, ducking down into the doorway and smiling at Jensen. “Jen, I’m sorry, but this is protocol. Colonel Kane isn’t going to hurt you. Just let him put on the restraints.”

“What did I do? What am I being arrested for? Who—who are you?” Jensen stammered.

“Jensen. Listen to me. You are not under arrest. I can’t tell you any more than that right now because it’s a matter of international security. I promise you we will answer your questions. But first we have to get you out of that, and to do that, we have to follow protocol.” Misha was using the same even, commanding tone, and Jensen found himself wanting to comply.

Jensen shook his head, “I know my rights. I’m a lawyer for fucks sake. Fucking arrest me or let me go, _sir_ ,” he added to Kane, training kicking in and telling him not to antagonize the commando with the gun. “And read me my rights. I do not consent to searches. I am invoking my right to remain silent. I am invoking my right to an attorney, and would like to make a phone call to contact her.”

Kane just looked at Misha incredulously. “Seriously?”

“He’s a lawyer, Colonel, and don’t start with me,” Misha grumbled back. To Jensen he said, “Jensen, please, just _trust me a little longer_. This will make it easier to keep the LEOs happy, okay?”

But he was also scared because whoever this person was, this national and international security quoting, badge-wielding, gadget queen of a military officer, it _wasn’t_ the skeptical, government-phobic, pacifist climatologist he’d married. And this just felt… wrong. Maybe he was better off with the police. Hell, what was the worst that could happen? They’d arrest him? Maybe somewhere down the line he’d get convicted of… something—what he had no idea—wind up in prison, lose his license? Fuck, at least he _understood_ the court system. It wasn’t like he wanted to deal with that, but at least it wasn’t _alien_ territory…

 _Alien_ … Jensen thought back to the WMD Misha had taken from him, and suddenly his stomach was trying to leap from his throat. There was no way he wasn’t going to puke—he leaned forward and vomited all over the center console, as Misha pulled Kane back and out of the way.

“Aw, shit…” Kane muttered, looking disgusted.

Jensen decided he didn’t like this guy very much.

“Jen… Jen?” Suddenly Misha was in front of him, inside the car, and reaching his arms out. “Okay, just come this way. Step here. And yeah… no, no, don’t sit down. Okay, here we go, see… that wasn’t so bad,” Misha concluded when he’d physically maneuvered Jensen into the driver’s seat without incident.

The keys were still in the ignition. His bag was still in the back seat. He needed…

 

“Whoa, no, sorry, you gotta leave that,” Misha said, putting a hand to Jensen’s chest, and stopping him from reaching for his bag. “There’s stuff in there that needs to go to Alona?”

“Y—yeah,” Jensen answered, feeling dizzy.

“Okay, I’m going to get it to her, I promise. But right now, you need to let Colonel Kane put the restraints on you so we can move you to the helicopter.” As Misha spoke, he pulled Jensen’s wrists together in front of him, and Kane leaned in and fastened the restraints. “See, that isn’t so bad.”

Jensen wanted to disagree, but he was feeling dizzier with each passing moment.

“Did Katie come with?” Misha asked.

“Yeah, why, you hurt? He hurt?” Kane answered.

“How much did they brief you?” Misha queried, assessing, his tone apprehensive.

“Pretty much not at all, just said there was a Priority One, and you needed help saving your bacon.” Kane sounded way too smug for Jensen’s liking. Despite his current ire and confusion towards his husband, he still felt the need to defend him.

“Well, it turns out Jensen’s a Marker, and he saved our lives by accidentally opening an intraplanetary wormhole. No, I’m not kidding. I’m pretty sure he’s got a pretty bad case of first timer’s hypoglycemia, so have Katie check him out and get some glucagon into him, ASAP.” Misha slapped Kane on the shoulder and walked away.

Jensen wanted to call after him, but found he was too weak.

“Seriously?” Kane asked again, this time, rhetorically.

Jensen didn’t remember much after that. They did take him up in the helicopter, Misha was there too, but he wasn’t sitting near Jensen. Jensen was pretty sure he was under armed guard, but he felt like shit and couldn’t really do anything about it. A blond woman—a doctor, he supposed—gave him a shot of something that made him puke again, and then he started to feel a little better. She also drew a lot of blood, while Jensen was still feeling woozy, and that had him a little worried. Well, more like terrified, but since that was his overall mood at the moment, he couldn’t really spare as much energy as the situation dictated.

The helicopter landed on the helipad of the UW Medical Center of all places, just a few blocks from where it had picked them up, and for a few moments Jensen thought they were actually taking him to get checked out. But then they loaded him into a series of elevators, and soon it was pretty clear they were underground… in some sort of military base _under_ the hospital. He wasn’t sure where Misha went after that. Someone _did_ remove his restraints, only to lead him into a small, dark room with concrete walls at the end of a long hallway.

The door closed behind him, its lock clicking with finality, as if signaling Jensen’s life as he knew it, was now over.

~~~

They didn’t leave him alone though. Jensen soon discovered he was apparently some kind of hot topic—an instant celebrity. Of course no one would let Jensen go, or say anything that made his world feel a little less upside down, so the company wasn’t exactly appreciated.

His first visitor was Lt. Col. Kane. He seemed more annoyed than amused to be tasked with _inducing_ Jensen. His speech—Jensen’s induction _was_ informative at the very least. Kane and everyone else— _including Misha, it seemed_ —worked for the Offworld Research and Defense Agency, which was also known to _civilians_ as the Oversight Research and Defense Agency, or _ORDA_ for short. They were officially an arm of the UN, and had the cooperation of over 100 nations governments, operating in tandem with the countries’ ordinary military to defend Earth from alien incursions, conduct interplanetary exploration and research, and oversee diplomatic relations between Earth and allied planets. The organization had been around for a little over one hundred and fifty years, and people had been globe hopping for a lot longer than that.

It sounded like ridiculous bullshit—or maybe a really mean joke—but then Jensen kept thinking of _Galaxy Quest_ and how Tim Allen’s character had _thought_ he was attending an elaborate cosplay gathering only to discover he was actually in outer space onboard an alien vessel. Jensen was pretty sure this was alien vessel land, not cosplay.

Jensen asked about a nondisclosure agreement, massively freaked out that they were _telling him this_ without him signing anything, but Kane just looked at him funny and said, “This isn’t Stargate.”

When Kane was finished droning on, and left, Jensen went back to pacing and contemplating his fate, which was looking increasingly bleak.

They didn’t leave him alone for long, as “Captain Doctor Katherine Cassidy, but you can call me Katie or Dr. Cassidy”—and yes, that was actually how she introduced herself—came in with the results of Jensen’s blood work.

“You’re what we call a Marker, Jensen,” she explained. “That’s a term we use for someone with certain genetic sequences found in what are believed to be alien-engineered bioluminescent, self-reproducing, hybrid nanotech-biological microorganisms we call ‘nanolumes.’” Dr. Cassidy went on to tell him about how nanolumes had been on Earth for at least a thousand years, if not much longer, and contained a variety of endogenous retroviruses that passed certain key genetic sequences to those who touched them. These mutations meant that Markers somewhat different physiology than nonMarker humans, especially on the biochemical level. They produced special neurotransmitters which allowed for a sort of telepathic communication with certain technology and artifacts also believed to be alien in origin. They also produced special pheromones that allowed them to seek out and find other Markers and potentially other artifacts and technology. Nanolumes had frustrated geneticists for decades, as they’d discovered the biomechanical organisms had a built-in self-destruct that made it impossible to study and thus, so far, there were no gene therapies or human-engineered means of _infecting_ a human with Marker DNA, nor had they developed a means to speed up nanolume reproduction. Nanolumes reproduced very slowly—over centuries—so the supply was usually limited to what people could find and therefore practically finite, and as a result, ORDA had very strictly regulated the exposure of nonMarkers to nanolumes. That also meant there were a lot of people at ORDA, like Dr. Cassidy, who weren’t markers. She’d been _exposed_ to ORDA’s mission when she was in med school after treating someone who didn’t realize he was a marker. She had noticed his very strange brain chemistry and ORDA had swooped down and _drafted_ her; she’d been an officer in the program ever since, and had completed her medical degree in an ORDA facility. She also explained how some people became Markers when they were exposed to nanolumes, while others had been Markers since birth, the genetic modifications passed down from generation to generation.

“You’re definitely _not_ first generation,” she added. “You have Marker DNA in your mitochondrial DNA _and_ you have related genetic mutations that we’ve discovered only manifest in children conceived from at least one marker parent. Since the WMD you touched was clean—no nanolumes on it—and Colonel Collins assures us you’ve never been exposed at home, that means your genetic profile is entirely inherited, which is—remarkable, considering you have the strongest presentation and concentration of Marker mutations we’ve ever found in a single individual. You’re even a little stronger than _Colonel Collins_ , and he was a Marker by birth who was also exposed to nanolumes in the field.”

Talking to Dr. Cassidy just made Jensen feel overwhelmed, confused. She sounded excited, and clearly _was_ thrilled with Jensen’s blood work—which apparently had already included a full DNA sequencing (he was betting there was some alien technology at play)—but he couldn’t share in her enthusiasm. Every word out of her mouth made him feel more lost… more like a lab rat or prize pig, and less like a human being.

Besides… he still didn’t understand what a WMD really _was_ , or why everyone was so freaked out (excited) about what he’d done.

Jared visited next. Seeing Jared—his _best friend_ —standing there, in uniform, while Jensen paced around a tiny concrete holding cell was almost too surreal to take. Jared seemed to pick up on Jensen’s discomfort and tried to be soothing, but it didn’t help all that much. Jensen did figure out Jared was a Marker, and actually reported to Misha in the field—which did go a long way towards explaining their strange sort of shorthand and why they used military time—but hadn’t always been a Marker. He was first-generation, unlike Jensen and Misha.

When Jared left, a quick glance at his watch told Jensen it was fast approaching five a.m. He hadn’t slept or eaten, nor had he seen Misha for four hours. By the time Misha finally did show up, Jensen was so _angry_ from the building sense of betrayal and loneliness, it was all he could do not to lash out physically.

~~~~

 **Chapter 3:**  
“I didn’t think you’d be this upset,” Misha said as he entered the room.

Jensen startled, his ever-more-frantic path around the 12’ by 12’ concrete room— _cell_ —interrupted.

“I mean if you ever found out, I didn’t think...” Misha’s words were directed half at Jensen this time, but he still sounded far away.

 _Light years away._

Jensen kept up his route—corner, corner, cross, corner, corner, cross—his feet treading figure-eights on the concrete floor. He was pacing like a caged animal, but that was what he was, wasn’t it? An animal? Especially to these people, whoever they were, whatever they did, wherever he was... _Infinity symbols._ Not figure-eights. He was pacing infinity. Each cycle taking him on asymptotic paths towards the rooms ends, never touching. He was half-afraid he’d be electrocuted if he touched the walls. He was probably being paranoid. Then again, maybe he was underestimating the situation. He wouldn’t put it past these people... Misha... _Misha is one of them._

“You didn’t think I’d be _upset_?” Jensen asked belatedly, his voice dripping with sarcasm and disbelief.

Misha didn’t respond, didn’t move; he just stood in the narrow doorway that had been filled moments before by a reinforced steel sliding door, its monotonous grey interrupted only by a narrow sliver of shatterproof, probably bullet proof, fire glass a foot and a half from its top. Misha was leaning, almost casual, against the doorframe.

It was wrong. So wrong. Misha was supposed to be with Jensen. Backing him up, his partner in everything. Hell, Jensen thought bitterly, if one of them was going to wind up on the wrong side of armed government agents, Jensen would have bet his salary on Misha being the one to get in trouble. Jensen was supposed to be the one to bail him out.

 _Only..._

The sickly green cast of the room’s lone fluorescent light bulb caught on something shiny clipped to the hem of Misha’s un-tucked shirt. A clip, holding a photo ID.

An image of the badge Misha had flashed earlier soared through Jensen’s head. _Misha was one of them_ , he realized again.

“You didn’t think, I’d be this upset,” Jensen repeated, pausing and glaring over at Misha. His sock-clad toes curled, pressing hard into the cold, unyielding concrete floor. It _hurt_ , but the physical pain wasn’t nearly enough to cut through, let alone overshadow, the turmoil and anguish burning in his chest.

Misha’s mouth opened and closed, fish-like.

Jensen couldn’t even garnish comfort from his victory of rendering Misha speechless.

“I wouldn’t react to discovering my _husband_ , my partner, has been leading a double life? I’m just supposed to what?” He swung out with his arms in frustration. “Not care that you’ve been lying to me? I mean, do I even _know_ you—”

“Jesus, yes, Jensen, you know me!” Misha stammered, obviously stung. “I haven’t lied to you. I couldn’t tell you, but you should understand. It’s confidentiality. You’re a lawyer; you deal with confidentiality issues all the time. I don’t expect you to violate your oath and betray your clients’ trust just because we’re married. So, I don’t understand...” Misha tugged at his hair in frustration. “Besides,” he shrugged. “You _love_ sci-fi!”

“So, what? You’ve been getting a laugh off me all these years?” Jensen spat.

“No, I’ve always wanted to share it with you!” Misha snapped back.

If Jensen was completely honest with himself, he would admit Misha sounded genuinely hurt, but betrayal, embarrassment, and _fear_ were shorting out everything else, overwhelming him. Sure Misha was hurt, probably annoyed Jensen wasn’t giddily playing the fool. “You wanna talk about _confidentiality_?” Jensen threw up his hands again, turning to face Misha head-on.

At least Misha had the good sense to understand it was a rhetorical question.

“Confidentiality is me not telling you that a defendant’s actually guilty. Confidentiality is me not spilling my client’s deepest, darkest secrets to everyone who wants to listen. Confidentiality is me not using other people’s financial information for my own gain. _Confidentiality_ is me _respecting_ the people I provide a service to and recognizing they’re the ones calling the shots about their own lives!”

He was pissed. He could feel his face turning red, his ears burning with excess heat. He took three steps towards Misha, part of him terrified someone was going to step in and shoot him for _threatening_ one of their own, the rest of him wishing someone would, so at least he’d be vindicated, justified in his fury and hatred and fear, rather than just feeling lost. _Lost and empty and so completely alone._

“Jensen...” It was a plea. “You do know me.”

“Oh yeah?” Jensen spluttered. “You were the guy who teased me about going _Dark Side_ because I’m a lawyer. You know, that hurts. I _worry_ sometimes that I’ve compromised too much, that I’m not idealistic or even pragmatic any more, just accepting. Every time a client looks at me and sees a ‘do-gooder,’ or someone who’s just trying to oppress them from a different angle, I feel guilty. But I took that coming from you, because you know, right? You’re the guy who’s out there poking the dragon. You know people who’ve gotten in trouble, so you just don’t want to see me sell out and become part of the problem. So, I took it. And now... Now you’re the hypocrite.”

Jensen was right up in Misha’s face when he finished, so close he could smell Misha, feel the heat radiating off his body, see the distress in the tightness of the lines around his eyes and the hard edge of his muscles under his t-shirt belying his casual pose. They were signals. Signals Jensen’s brain was interpreting as safe, want, distress, comfort. Part of him ached to reach out and touch, because Misha was _home_ and every reflex was conditioned to seek the comfort that provided. Every reflex compelled him to give and wipe the pain from Misha’s countenance.

But at the same time, Jensen could see the empty space behind Misha, the shadowed corners of concrete, steel, and glass that stretched out in the labyrinth that trapped Jensen. It was a reminder that Misha was outside, one of _them_ , part of _this_ , the free man to Jensen’s prisoner (and maybe even one of his jailors). And it was enough to keep him from closing the distance. The bitter voice in the back of his mind scolding that Misha wasn’t _his_ , not any more, and maybe even not ever. Misha couldn’t be trusted, especially not when Jensen had been poked and prodded and... and violated by their medical staff. Observed and cornered and isolated, and he was still in here, and he didn’t know anything. Not really. There was no way he could afford to trust, not now. Not when they had all the cards.

Misha must have sensed Jensen’s hesitance or seen him looking, because he said, “You’re not a prisoner,” his voice low and gravelly.

“Am I free to go?” Jensen asked, choking a little on a laugh as he pulled back into himself.

Misha flinched, shifted, shuffled his feet as he stood straighter.

“I thought so,” Jensen spat, tasting bile in his throat. He took a half-step back and began to turn towards the back wall of his cell. “It’s the same thing, you know...”

“It’s not like that,” Misha protested.

Even through his anger and betrayal, Jensen could see Misha’s frustration. Frustration and something much darker, deeper, but not directed at Jensen. It gave Jensen pause. He felt himself freezing and sucking in a sharp breath, some part of his mind overriding the scorned lover and wronged friend and making him listen.

“We have to brief you. They—we,” Misha seemed to break a little at the admission, “—will tell you what that was all about. We’ll tell you what’s happening now. We’ll try to figure out what’s happening from here. But we have to wait.”

Jensen’s emotions began to surge and tumble again, threatening to bowl over the logical voice telling him to keep listening. He opened his mouth to make a bitter retort, only to slam his jaw shut before he could get a breath out.

Misha had taken two steps towards him and was reaching out, his left hand hovering mere inches from Jensen’s arm, twitching with his uncertainty. He didn’t touch.

“Remember,” Misha swallowed, his eyes darting to Jensen’s eyes and then quickly away. “Remember earlier, when I said I’d give you a ride, remember what I said?”

Jensen jerked, how could that be “earlier”? Was it really just hours ago? He knew it was, even if the rest of him had aged a hundred years and lost hold of all it counted dear. “You—you said there was an emergency, and you had to come in and handle it.” Jensen dared raise his eyes to meet Misha’s refocusing them into a cautious glare. He could see his bitterness reflected in Misha’s tight, pained expression.

“Yeah, I had to come in because there was an emergency. See, even with all this excitement, there’s still that emergency. It’s real, and the person who needs to brief you isn’t here. And while that person’s not here, I’ve got responsibilities—well, I guess you could say extra, extra responsibilities now,” Misha added glancing up at the ceiling as if seeking strength. “I can’t put any of that off.” He met Jensen’s eyes again, and there was a warning in his expression, something private and personal. As Misha stepped closer, finally resting his hand on Jensen’s shoulder and gently, subtly nudging Jensen away from the door so he was turned slightly to his left with Misha pressed up flush against his chest.

Jensen looked up, shocked, but didn’t pull away. Something in Misha’s body language filtered through the warring emotions and overriding sense of betrayal in Jensen’s mind and compelled him to stay where Misha had put him.

Misha’s eyes were downcast when he spoke, his face close to Jensen’s and his voice low. But he didn’t lean into Jensen’s ear, and he wasn’t whispering. “I’m sorry. I am sorry you have to wait, but you just have to hang on a little longer. Then they’ll brief you.”

Jensen tensed, but Misha’s fingers tightened on his shoulder.

“I promise I’ll tell you everything.” The words were rushed, tumbling over each other as they left Misha’s lips. “But not here, and not now.” He looked up and met Jensen’s eyes, sliding his hand up from Jensen’s shoulder until his palm cupped the back of Jensen’s neck.

Jensen’s rage lost the battle and he leaned into Misha’s hand seeking reassurance, an anchor.

“Later. I promise. Everything.” His fingers tightened momentarily and he stepped back and away leaving Jensen standing, stunned in the middle of the room. Misha’s eyes swept over the same spot on the ceiling as he turned and walked out the door.

The door slid shut again and Jensen was alone.

It was only later after the briefing that Jensen realized Misha hadn’t been looking to the ceiling for _strength_.

~~~

Just like Misha had promised, a young lieutenant finally came and collected Jensen, leading him to a large conference room with a long oval table. They were still underground, but this room was decorated to look more like a cushy corporate office with blue carpeting, white walls, and dark mahogany accents. The chairs were even high-end ergonomic models that looked positively inviting. The walls were sparse, but decorated. The US flag, UN flag, and several other flags and banners Jensen didn’t recognize at first glance stood under a spotlight in one corner, and pictures of leaders and dignitaries graced one wall. Everyone inside was dressed in uniform—not a uniform he recognized, but a more formal version of the all black clothes the troops who’d arrived in the helicopter had been wearing. They were all standing—at attention, he thought, but he wasn’t sure—and he felt acutely out of place.

“Mr. Ackles, please have a seat,” said an attractive, middle-aged Caucasian woman with auburn hair and more medals pinned to her chest than Jensen had ever seen. She was standing behind a chair at the middle of the oval table on one side and gestured to the seat across from her, and Jensen complied.

Once he was seated, she took her seat, and that seemed to be the signal for everyone else to sit. “Mr. Ackles—” she began.

“Please, you can call me Jensen, ma’am,” he offered. He didn’t care if it was unprofessional or if courts normally only referred to minors by their first names. He needed something to ground him, something to make this _real_ , and if his first name could personalize the interaction enough for him to get that, he was all for it.

“Very well, Jensen,” she said, clearly humoring him. “My name is General Samantha Ferris and to my left is General Frederic Lehne.”

A balding, grey-haired man with an almost manic grin bowed forward.

Jensen wasn’t sure what it was about the man, but he was instantly unsettled.

“To my right is Colonel Mitchel Peleggi, who is hear as the official representative of General Gina Bellman. Gen. Bellman and the other two Generals who make up ORDA’s governing counsel could not be here as they are both attending business offworld. Please forgive us for making you wait so long, but I was attending to a minor crisis with a nonMarker witness who had been in the custody of the United States Bureau of Prisons and Gen. Lehne was attending a cultural summit on AB15, an allied planet, and so it took us a while to convene a quorum.”

Jensen nodded, unsure what sort of a response she might expect.

General Ferris continued. “Also present are Lt. Col. Christian Kane, who I understand you met earlier, and Lt. Col. Misha Collins, who I understand you know in his civilian identity.”

“He—he’s my husband, ma’am,” Jensen replied.

“I prefer, ‘sir,’ Jensen, please keep that in mind.” And Ferris was off giving _her_ speech. At least she was providing some new information.

It seemed Jensen was actually at the world headquarters for ORDA. Everyone who found out about alien technology, space travel, or Markers, either worked for ORDA or disappeared into protective custody. And everyone who worked for ORDA was military.

Gen. Ferris gave a slightly more detailed version of the same story Dr. Cassidy had told—for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, some people—people with a specific set of genes not found in most of the population, genes scientists had confirmed in the 20th Century were engineered by an unknown alien race—had been other people with the genes, places that had large numbers of nanolumes—the tiny, bioluminescent, nanotechnology-based engineered gene delivery systems, and stores of presumably alien technology. That natural affinity combined with the nanolumes slow-but-steady reproduction and certain genetic redundancies found in Marker DNA meant Markers had continued in the human population at continually increasing numbers. They didn’t die out, and their unique characteristics didn’t mutate much from generation to generation. The redundancies were presumed to be an engineered safeguard to ensure Markers continued to be able to interface with the technology that responded to their unique body chemistry.

The most prominent technology was the wormhole making device or WMD, which allowed the user to travel from world to world, opening wormholes to the moon, to other planets, places in other star systems, possibly even other galaxies. WMDs were nothing like the wormholes of Stargate. They were tiny, portable, and concealable. Because they allowed an individual to open a wormhole aperture tunneling through space-time to connect two points, they could be opened anywhere and could go anywhere, thus they created some unique risks and challenges with defense. They were convenient—you could travel to the specific place on a given planet or moon you needed to reach, and need not rely on traveling to a fixed point and then taking ground or air transportation from there. They were also inconvenient because only Markers could operate them, and any nonMarkers who wished to travel had to rely on Markers to do so.

People with the genes seemed to use the devices instinctively. In fact a number of artists and writers from various cultures were believed to have been Markers who had traveled to other planets. Yes, Jules Verne was among them, so was Samuel Taylor Coleridge and, _Kubla Khan_ , was actually a place and not just the result of an opium dream. People had been using the technology and infecting and re-infecting each other with stronger and stronger expressions of the Marker genome for hundreds or thousands of years. Not every Marker had all possible Marker genes. Some had very few, others had a lot. The most basic genes—apparently carried by every nanolume and present in every identified Marker—enabled Markers to interact with WMDs and ensured Markers would produce the sorts of pheromones that drew them to each other and other alien tech.

For the last 150 years, ORDA had been working with world governments to keep the technology and strange abilities (and later genetics)a secret while enabling extraterrestrial, interstellar, and interplanetary exploration, diplomacy, and research. ORDA scientists had isolated the specific connections between Markers’ brains and the alien-made or original-source WMDs and had painstakingly learned how to make their own human-made adaptations. As a result, ORDA no longer relied solely on artifacts and antiques that were recovered from time to time. Every marker who wanted one could have their own WMD, and in fact ORDA required Markers to carry WMDs at all times for safety reasons.

What Jensen had done that got everyone’s panties in a bunch, was open a wormhole between two points on the same planet. Up until tonight no one had known a WMD could do that. The WMD he had used was an original-source artifact Misha had recovered from an arctic glacier years ago. It wasn’t his usual WMD—that one was _also_ hidden in Misha’s jacket when he was out of uniform—he’d just happened to have it on hand for some tests he’d been running. “We believe you may have discovered a hidden potential in _all_ alien-made WMDs, and with further study, we will be able to add this functionality to our own devices,” General Ferris concluded with a genuine smile. “Jensen it may not sound like much to you, but for centuries we’ve faced the irony that it was faster to travel across the solar system than across the street. I just spent five hours on a plane getting here from Terre Haute, Indiana. If we can enable all our personnel to travel across the country or the continent by wormhole, it will revolutionize our organization.” She seemed genuinely thrilled, but Jensen got the distinct impression there was something more than convenience at stake.

Jensen had listened and listened and listened almost to the point of boredom—he’d even stopped having the urge to snicker every time someone said “WMD,” when General Lehne—who had taken over the speechifying when Gen. Ferris finished her spiel, said something that truly _terrified_ Jensen.

“You see, Mr. Ackles,” General Lehne began. He spoke with a slight German accent and had refused to call Jensen anything but Mr. Ackles, “secrecy and security are of the utmost importance. Earth has treaties, relationships, and understandings with dozens of planets, species, and other inhabited worlds. Given the current state of world affairs, these would all be threatened if word got out about our existence, the existence of extraterrestrial life, and the presence of people such as yourself with shall we say _extraordinary_ abilities. Therefore it is our longstanding policy that once you find out, you are a part of ORDA for life. Most serve as commissioned officers—some who were enlisted prior to their exposure to our program choose to retain their enlisted ranks. This is a mutually beneficial relationship that ensures we have the best and brightest minds, the most dedicated souls. A few, however, take it upon themselves to cause trouble. They do not care about the security of our planet or the wellbeing of their fellows, and we are forced to take them into custody.”

And that was it. Jensen’s new reality. The organization didn’t let people go—if you found out, you were in. You either worked for ORDA or you disappeared.

Jensen had a sinking feeling he knew what had happened to Ms. Friedman’s brother.

Jensen’s day got weirder still when it was Misha’s turn to talk. Here was his husband, who he’d known for years, and Jensen was hearing his life story for the first time. Misha, it turned out, had always had the gene complex, but when he was in the Arctic doing his Post Doc, he’d been exposed to a massive number of nanolumes and discovered a massive cache of alien weaponry and tech, including the unusually designed WMD that had been in his bag—the one Jensen had been holding. The nanolume exposure had increased Misha’s abilities and extended the strength of his genetic expression. Until Jensen came along, Misha had been the strongest Marker ORDA had. They’d trained him, commissioned him with the rank of provisional captain, and put him on the front lines—exploring worlds, dealing with friends and foes alike.

By the time the briefing was over—some five hours later—Jensen was still angry at Misha and scared, but he was starting to think Misha really had been trying to protect him. As hurt as he was, there was no going back, no changing it, and he still loved Misha, still wanted their life together—only it seemed the life they’d had was now out of reach. There was no going back to the way things were. Jensen was going to be a part of ORDA whether he liked it or not. So, he decided he’d try to make up with Misha, just as soon as he could get his heart on board with the process.

He felt a little betrayed by Jared too—his own best friend had been lying to him and he found himself asking all kinds of questions. Was Jared really his friend, or was he just nice to Jensen because Jared felt he needed to watch out for his boss and protect him? Not his boss, his _commanding officer_.

Jensen also came away from the briefing with the impression ORDA was a fractured organization. The more he listened and read between the lines the more he realized for all ORDA’s pretending it was a unified and global organization, it seemed to be made up of competing factions. There were the regular military types, those like Misha trying to keep ORDA good and honest, keep people alive, make the best of a bad situation; and then there were people who would like to collect Jensen as a specimen to be studied, tested, possibly vivisected, not trained and sent out in the field—where he could die—or allowed to interact with the normal human world. Over the coming months, Jensen would become terrified of those people and learn to live in fear.

~~~

 **Chapter 4:**  
The next few months were a blur. Jensen didn’t go back to his old life. Instead he stayed underground getting physicals, learning to shoot, training in hand-to-hand, improving his agility, and getting a crash course in alien communications. He slept on base, ate on base, and went to the doctor on base. Until he was trained, there was no going outside and no interacting with the _normal_ human world. He missed his friends and hardly got to see Misha—who of course had his normal assignments and cover job to do—which made reconciliation and establishing a new equilibrium in their relationship almost impossible. Without his work and friends, Jensen felt totally out of his depth. He was a lawyer, not an action hero. No matter how cool he thought science fiction was, or how much he imagined himself in the role of John Sheppard, or maybe Ben Sisko, it just wasn’t the same as suddenly having to live with it.

The toughest part was ORDA’s version of OCS—officer training was mandatory for Markers who showed any degree of ease with using the WMDs, both the artifact-style alien and earth-made replicas. After two months of basic training, “ORDA Advanced” as it was known, took Jensen offworld for a month to a series of Earth-controlled and allied planets, where Jensen learned all about how WMDs worked, how his body worked with them. He also got instruction on how he could develop his senses to seek out other markers, how his abilities gave him skill with learning alien languages, even though most of the aliens Earth regularly communicated with were physiologically vastly different from humans. The communications classes were a lot more thorough and practical than the stuff he’d had in basic, but when it came to the “reach out and touch someone” lessons as they were affectionately called, Jensen had a feeling he understood more instinctively about how to _feel out_ other markers, than his instructor did.

~~~

Then there was the practical training. Jensen was going to be assigned to Lt. Col. Kane’s team when his training was through—apparently much to Kane’s chagrin, and Kane happened to be on rotation to handle Practical Offworld Training, which took up the last two weeks of the program. Jensen and the other cadets woke up early their first morning and assembled outside for Kane to give yet another lecture.

“Listen up people, because I am only going to say this once,” Kane began.

They were standing in formation on a barren field on some no-name planet designated by a number Jensen couldn’t remember. It was freezing, and they were in basic black duty uniforms—not dissimilar from the BDUs worn in Stargate. Ice crystals were crunching under foot and the sun was an unpleasantly angry purple as it reflected through the planet’s atmosphere. Jensen wanted to jog, dance, scream, anything to stay warm, but instead he was getting talked at again.

“As you may know, alien-made WMDs interact with particular neurotransmitters and pheromones that allow you to perceive and interpret environmental conditions on the other side of the wormhole,” Kane barked.

“Huh, that’s new,” the guy next to Jensen—Guzman, or something, muttered.

“This acts like a go–no go switch. If the atmosphere, pressure, gravity, temperature, or ionizing radiation levels on the other side of a wormhole are too great for you to withstand, you will receive painful feedback when you open the wormhole. If you try to step _through_ the wormhole, it will snap closed, and you won’t be able to. The same neurotransmitter works even if someone else opened the wormhole. If you’re not paying attention, the wormhole will shut down. If you try to kill yourself, it will shut down. Understand?” Kane asked.

The echo of “Sir, yes sir,” made Jensen want to giggle.

“Any physical contact with the aperture of a wormhole to an incompatible location will cause intense nausea, headache, and dizziness. If the conditions on the other side are just crappy, but not incompatible, you’ll still get feedback, but it won’t be as intense. If you try to enter an incompatible wormhole in addition to the wormhole closing, you may lose consciousness. What this means is no one can throw you into a star or a gas giant, but they can still use that technique to incapacitate you.” Kane paused and continued, pacing back and forth across the flat expanse.

“When ORDA first reverse-engineered WMDs, our scientists didn’t realize the contact biofeedback and non-contact biofeedback are two different things. They’re controlled by different neurotransmitters and different elements of the WMD. Contact biofeedback is integral to WMD design. Non-contact biofeedback, the early warning go–no go switch, is not. As a result, we lost the nonMarker members of two teams to accidents where a WMD connected with an incompatible environment and the nonMarkers stepped through first, while the Marker held the wormhole open. They didn’t realize anything was wrong until the Marker members of the team tried to step through and the contact biofeedback kicked in. The Markers passed out, while the wormhole slammed closed stranding the nonMarker members on the other side. Because of the integration of contact biofeedback, there was no way to retrieve their teammates.” Kane paused both his pacing and his lecture letting the information sink in.

Jensen glanced sideways and noticed everyone looked about as sick as he felt. Now he was beginning to understand why they did this on the first day, in the freezing cold, before breakfast.

“After those accidents Earth-made WMDs were redesigned. They now have built-in telemetry receivers that transmit environmental data back to the Marker and display it on a screen built into the WMD itself. Earth-made WMDs also have a pre-programmed autoclose feature that will force an incompatible wormhole closed even without contact. And, once our scientists identified the component/neurotransmitter combination that enables non-contact biofeedback, every Earth-made WMD has that built in as an extra precaution. We also changed tactics. Every team has at least two Markers, and at least one goes through first. That way, even if the telemetry fails or you ignore the biofeedback, no one gets stranded, no one gets killed. Any questions?”

A young, dark-skinned woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty raised her hand.

“Yes? Cadet Jones,” Kane acknowledged.

“Are you saying Earth-made WMDs are better, sir? Because I heard they don’t do intraplanetary wormholes, and apparently the alien ones do.”

Kane smiled at Cadet Jones, and glared at Jensen.

Jensen hadn’t said _anything_ ; in fact, it was the first rumor he’d heard about intraplanetary wormholes since starting training.

“We only recently discovered intraplanetary wormholes are possible, so no, that feature hasn’t been built into Earth-made WMDs yet. However, I will warn you, even if you have an artifact WMD, there’s no guarantee you’re going to be able to open an intraplanetary wormhole. We still have a lot to learn about them.” Kane looked down, clearly debating how much to say. “There are some other differences too. Noncontact biofeedback on artifact WMDs takes into account the tolerances of the individual who opened the wormhole; Earth-made WMDs set the biofeedback to predefined standards—the former is great if you’re traveling alone, the latter better for traveling in a group. Earth-made WMDs also have an auto-close feature for potentially debilitating but nonlethal connections. You can disable it, but it has to be a conscious choice. Some teams have found this problematic in hot-pursuit situations. If you need to make a quick escape, jumping to a low-oxygen planet so you have time to jump somewhere else may not kill you, but having the wormhole slam shut while you’re trying to get away from pursuit might.”

“Okay,” Kane continued. “Now that you know more about your responsibilities to the nonMarker members of your team, I’m going to give you practical training about your abilities and tolerances.”

“Our abilities, sir?” Jones asked again.

“Yes. Prepare, to be miserable,” Kane replied with a little too much glee.

And that was how Jensen learned that barring any overlying illness or disability, markers could survive and function in conditions significantly harsher than nonMarkers. This meant entering a wormhole with unpleasant biofeedback could result in fatalities or incapacitation of nonMarker team members, while the Markers would survive. Jensen sure he didn’t want that kind of responsibility over others’ lives, but Kane made it clear they had no choice.

Then it was time to start _testing_. They opened wormholes, to stars, gas giants, moons with no atmosphere, high gravity, low gravity, no oxygen, high toxin environments and much more. Kane made them get used to the biofeedback produced by both kinds of WMDs. He trained them to interpret remote environmental telemetry, and how to know when a wormhole was safe for everyone or just safe for Markers. They all had to test contact biofeedback, and while Jensen didn’t pass out any of the five times he tried it, he did puke twice, had a seizure once, and wound up with a migraine the fourth time. The one time he wasn’t incapacitated, he still got knocked on his ass.

They learned about defaults—the easiest way to connect a wormhole—and “dialing in”—providing specific coordinates to the WMD, which was much more challenging. Kane taught them in the event they were retreating from hot pursuit,  
and the nearest planet is marker-survivable, they were supposed to take their team through despite the danger to nonMarkers. He went on and on about how Markers were more valuable from a security standpoint and how it was safer than risking an entire team to capture, or even just risking capture of non-markers, since they could have valuable information about Earth, humanity, and ORDA.

The idea sickened Jensen. There was so much inequity and possibility for abuse. He got the sense it pissed off Kane too, but he wasn’t sure. It just served to reinforce Jensen’s uncomfortable relationship with his new life. On many levels he hated ORDA, hated its values and priorities, but then again, there was no way _out_.

POT training finished with Kane actually dragging them out to barely survivable environments to test their individual tolerances. They were frozen, overheated, oxygen deprived, crushed, and scalded. Each time, an instructor in an environmental suit accompanied the cadet, and monitored the cadet’s health. Jensen discovered his tolerances were rather extreme, and far greater than everyone else in his class. It wasn’t entirely surprising, considering what Dr. Cassidy had told him about his genes, but it did leave him feeling a bit less human and made his classmates jealous.

When he finally got back to Earth, Misha was offworld and Jensen was called in to meet with Gen. Ferris, who promptly explained to Jensen that Misha was one of her best officers, and had taken over the team he currently led, when his CO, a man named Colonel Morgan, died. She didn’t say what happened to Col. Morgan, but Jensen got the impression it wasn’t natural causes. It drove home just how dangerous this line of work was.

~~~

“So, how’s it going?” Jared asked, plunking down in a chair across from Jensen.

Jensen looked up, startled. He’d been staring at his tapioca pudding lost in thought. They were in ORDA’s cafeteria, a large room with very high ceilings that tried to feel light and airy, but wasn’t because it was several stories underground. Jensen had lectures on handgun safety and practical WMD operation running through his head. He was fresh back from OPL9, an Earth-controlled planet where ORDA ran its advanced training basecamp. Kane and the other instructors had spent the last month _remolding_ Jensen’s body and mind. Well that was what they called it. Mostly he just felt half-starved, constantly sore and achy, and was really, really disturbed at his newly developed abilities to fire weapons accurately, open wormholes to almost any kind of conceivable celestial body (and tell if it would be safe to bring nonMarkers through to the other side) , escape confinement, resist torture, and oh yeah—understand alien languages. He might as well have been getting _Matrix_ style brain downloads for all the information he’d crammed in his head. The scariest part was he actually seemed to be retaining it all.

“Earth to Jensen?” Jared repeated, waving his hand in front of Jensen’s face.

Jensen blinked, dropped his spoon, and burst out laughing. “Oh—oh—oh my god you did not just…”

Jared cracked a smile, “Yeah, that old saying has an entirely different meaning to it now.” Jared scooted closer, picking up a brownie from his tray and cramming half of it in is mouth. “So, heard you got back,” he mumbled around bits of brownies.

“Yeah, last night,” Jensen admitted. Three months. Three months _off-word_ , only seeing Misha twice, not going home at all. He hadn’t left ORDA’s… custody, for lack of a better term… since the night of the car accident . Thing was, Jensen wasn’t sure what there was to go back to. He missed _Misha_ , like he missed Alona and everyone else at the office, even annoying Ms. Costa. He thought of Ms Friedman again, and her poor brother who he now knew was stuck in ORDA custody. Or maybe not _stuck_ since apparently it was something to do with his custody—someone else trying to _take_ him? That had prompted Misha’s joint excursion that fateful night.

 _Fateful night, hah! Now you’re thinking in melodrama, Jensen?_ he scolded himself.

He couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if he’d gone alone. Would he have avoided the accident entirely? Died because there was no WMD there to save him? And did it really save him? Because sometimes he felt like death wouldn’t be an entirely bad alternative to this nightmarish dreamworld to which he’d awoken. He would have at least died a happy man who loved his job and his husband—a husband whom he trusted, and who loved him back. Now… now he wasn’t so sure, didn’t really believe he had a life to go back to. How could he ever _trust_ Misha again if everything he knew was a lie?

“Jensen?” Jared started again, “Okay, I know you well enough to know you’re lost somewhere inside that freaky smart head of yours and it’s nowhere good, judging from how you’re stabbing your fork into your carrots.”

Jensen wasn’t even aware he was stabbing his carrots, but sure enough there they were, three slices of cooked carrot jammed onto his fork and a dozen more half-mashed on his plate. “I found out I was living in the Matrix, _Captain Padalecki_. My life and everyone I cared about, a lie. So excuse me if I’m not in the mood for conversation.”

“Aargh!” Jared growled, slamming his fork down on his tray so hard the table lurched. His chair scraped forward. “See, I warned Misha you were going to be like this, and he just said, no, Jensen knows I love him, he’ll understand he has to… and then he’d just shut up about it.”

“You had conversations about me?” Jensen said, looking up, his voice blank. He was mostly feeling _numb_ right now, numb and disoriented.

“Yes, we had conversations about you, _Captain Ackles_ , or did you forget I’m your best friend and he’s your husband! We were in a shitty fucked up situation, and we talked. And he worried. And I worried. And we hoped we’d never have to deal with it. And I _know_ you’ve already had this conversation with Misha, and I know you were all nice—nice but distant—the last two times you saw him. And I knew, no matter how optimistic he was about those encounters, it was just the calm before the storm, you were still… marinating.” Jared picked up his fork and punctuated his sentence with a particularly enthusiastic bite of barbequed pork.

“Marinating? What am I a steak?” Jensen murmured. Jared was pissing him off, or trying to anyway, but Jensen just didn’t have the energy to deal with him. He had his first off-world mission tomorrow and far too few hours of “down time” between then and now to try to start feeling human— _hah!_ —again and figure out what the fuck to do with his life.

“No, you’re a person. A physically exhausted, emotionally drained, intelligent, messed-up person, who has spent the last three months reeling from having everything he thought he knew about the world yanked out from under him, and now he’s trying to wrap his head around it, only he’s going about everything the wrong way,” Jared shot back, continuing to eat with gusto. “Look, you’re my best friend, and last time, I checked, you I was yours, to do us all a favor, and listen, okay?”

“I don’t know, are you? Are you really a friend, or am I just the idiot you and Misha laughed about behind your backs—silly sci fi geek—” Jensen started, but broke off when Jared reached across the table and grabbed his arm. Jensen strained, but Jared’s grip was too strong, vise-like, immovable.

“Jensen, you are going to shut up, and listen. Just listen to me. You are my best friend. I care about you like my own brother, only I’m closer to you than I am to my own brother, because in case you haven’t noticed, they don’t really make it easy for us to have family ties. Misha and I and everyone here, we’ve all been where you are right now. It was less of a shock, less of an adjustment for some of us compared to others, but we’re all here, all been there, and we’re all in the same boat. Misha, your husband, who you now know is also a Lieutenant Colonel, he _loves_ you, with all his heart and soul. All he has ever wanted to do in life is make you happy, spend time with you, and if possible protect you from this—not because he thought you were silly and naïve, not because he pitied you, not because he thought you were weak—but because he didn’t want you stuck in this the way we are. Hell, still worried he was being too selfish just by being with you, but he loved you too much to let go, and didn’t want to hurt you or himself by pushing you away.” Jared let go of Jensen’s arm, but kept his hand close.

“He told you that?” Jensen asked, hating how his voice caught and wavered.

“Yes,” Jared replied, “Many times.” Jared’s voice sounded thick, hoarse, funny, and when Jensen looked up, there were tears in Jared’s eyes. “In case you haven’t figured it out, ORDA doesn’t really give you a choice. This isn’t sign a nondisclosure agreement and we’ll give you a fine and a slap on the wrist if we find out—this is bugs in your house, cameras recording your every move, information on your family in case they ever need it for leverage or collateral control. This is for _life_ Jensen. Misha loves you, and he doesn’t want to go through his life without you, but he didn’t want you to be stuck in this with him if you didn’t have to be. He would have loved to have told you, but it was never an option.”

“Cam—they have cameras in our apartment?” Jensen asked, his voice rising with alarm he didn’t entirely feel. He’d already figured out ORDA was obsessive enough to do that, hearing it freely admitted was something else entirely.

“They don’t watch us have sex, but aside from that, yeah. Your apartment is big brother central. Mish’ll show you the blind spots,” Jared confirmed, attacking his food with renewed gusto. It was so like Jared, he’d be all serious one second and then completely distracted by food the next. “They’ll give you a briefing on it before they let you leave base this afternoon. That is, if you go home to sleep, which I am here not so subtly trying to convince you to do.”

Jensen had to grin at that—that kind of interplay between Misha and Jared, playing off each other, using Jared’s humor to get through Jensen’s walls when he was being stubborn—that was familiar, comforting. Something Jensen knew. “Does—does Genevieve know?” He asked hesitantly.

Jared looked up, wide-eyed and affronted, ready to launch into an argument—probably one directed at Jensen for _not listening_ because yes, Jared had made it perfectly clear how much telling was _not_ an option with ORDA—but he must have seen something in Jensen’s eyes, because he stilled, stopped, put down his fork, swallowed, and answered with a resigned, quiet, “No, she doesn’t.”

“Sorry…” Jensen hedged, not really sure if that was the right response.

“Don’t… don’t be. I—” Jared sighed, wiping his hands through his hair, and tugging on it in frustration. “I hate not being able to talk to her, you know? That’s what Misha used to go through all the time, but at least you—your sci fi addiction was something he could latch onto and _connect_ with you. Gen isn’t like that.” He cleared his throat. “No matter how much that hurts,” he squeaked, his voice cracking, “I’m still really glad she doesn’t know, because Gen, as far as we know, she’s not a Marker, and in case you haven’t figured it out, ORDA is a lot less nice to nonMarkers who find out than it is to Markers. It _needs_ us,” he said pointing back and forth between Jensen and himself. “No matter how nice, or smart, or skilled, or fucking awesome Gen or any other nonMarker is, her usefulness will never outweigh the liability she poses, not entirely.”

“But—but there are lots of nonMarkers here, even General Lehne and General Li—” Jensen protested.

“Yeah, and have you talked to them? NonMarkers in the ranks or ordinary officers like us—they live in fear of the day they fuck up and ORDA decides they’re too much of a risk. NonMarkers in the brass and administration—the Generals and government liaisons—they look as us like we’re some kind of animals to control. They don’t trust us. Those are your choices—hunted prey or fucked up superiority complex. And there’s no escape. So, no matter how much I wish I could share things with Genevieve, unless things change a lot, I’m going to hope and pray that she never finds out,” Jared admitted. He contemplated the mashed potatoes on his plate. “Then again, she never did know what I did, so…” he shrugged, “there’s always been an element of secrecy there.”

Intrigued despite himself, and really starting to absorb what Jared had said, Jensen leaned closer and asked, “Wait, what _did_ you do?”

“Remember how I said I interned with the CIA in college?” Jared asked, his expression sheepish.

“Yeah,” Jensen replied—it had always been something he’d teased Jared about, after all, playfully accusing him of being a government spy on Enviropreserve. For a brief while after the accident, Jensen had jokingly wondered if maybe Jared _had_ been a spy who’d somehow turned Misha in and forced him to do the government’s evil bidding, or something equally sinister. Now neither joke was at all funny.

“Well, that was true,” Jared replied, “only I wasn’t an analyst, and it wasn’t just in college. I told Gen the same thing I told you guys, because I had to. As far as she knew, I was a consultant for a while before coming to Enviropreserve. Of course, I was really a special agent. I was doing a two month rotation at a black site in Afghanistan when a convoy transporting prisoners got hit. I was onsite investigating, and I see this funky rock,” he said, making swirly gestures with his hands. “It had some odd carving on it I didn’t recognize, so I reached over to brush some of the sand off—I don’t know what I was thinking. It wasn’t like an IED or something, and I had no reason to think it had to do with the prisoners or the attack, but it just looked out of place. So, I touched it, and the next thing I knew the palm of my hand was glowing green and everyone’s freaking out. They thought I’d been exposed to some kind of bioweapon. Next thing I know, I’m in quarantine in a cleanroom on base, and these two guys from some agency I’ve never even heard of are coming in and demanding the CIA turn me over to their custody. I mean, what the fuck, right? I’m in the ass-end of nowhere, doing the government’s evil bidding—I never agreed with it, by the way, and I never tortured anybody,” Jared reassured, holding up his fork to emphasize the point. “And these guys show up to take _me_ away? I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, and I was scared shitless. Especially ‘cause these guys were supposed to be with some UN body, but they both _screamed_ military. I’m coming up with all these horrible worst-case scenarios in my head, totally panicking. I was a wreck. It was actually a relief when I found out I’d just been infected with genetically engineered alien microbes and was now going to be traveling to other planets.”

The smile that spread on Jensen’s face was real, reaching his eyes. “Yeah, I can see how that would seem like a good alternative,” he agreed. “Who—who was it? That picked you up, I mean?”

“Kane and Collins,” Jared admitted. “They were both Majors, and Kane was still kind of new to ORDA at that point. Misha had to keep reeling him in, and you could see Kane chaffing against it the entire time. I didn’t have the courage to ask what was going on until after I’d completed my training and they’d set me up at Enviropreserve. When Misha told me Kane had his panties in a bunch because he didn’t think Misha was a _real_ soldier, I almost fell off my chair laughing. I sobered up when Misha told me how he got exposed and how they figured out he’d already been a Marker, but still,” he snorted. “Misha hides it well, but as you’ve seen, he’s more soldier than 90% of the people in this organization.”

“Thank you. For telling me,” Jensen said, sliding his hand across the table towards Jared’s and giving his hand a squeeze. “I—I’m sorry if I’ve been a jerk, it’s just been a—”

“A lot to wrap your head around, I know,” Jared finished. “So here’s what I’m proposing. You,” he pointed with his fork, “finish your lunch. Then I’ll take you through security to check you out, get your stupid ‘our bugs are everywhere’ briefing, and go home. You, me, and Misha will play some XBOX 360—although not anything Halo-related—and then I’ll go home to Genevieve and you and Misha will spend the evening reconnecting and fucking like bunnies.”

“Hey!” Jensen tossed a pea at Jared in retaliation.

“Trust me, you both need to get laid,” Jared said with an evil grin. “Then tomorrow, you’ll go into work together, and it will be the first day of the rest of your lives, as they say.”

Sitting there in the cafeteria trying to force down the rest of his lunch, it didn’t sound that easy, but later that night, after they’d played until Jensen’s fingers were sore from the XBOX controller, after he and Misha had talked and cried and forgiven each other, after they’d made love—Misha taking long, slow strokes into his body, as they touched everywhere, rediscovering each other with lips and fingertips—when Jensen was lying in his husband’s arms, it felt like it might _almost_ be that easy. It wasn’t the same, not yet. There was still… _tension_ between him and Misha that hadn’t been there before. But it was just that, tension. The distrust and anger and betrayal and fear were all gone and despite the bugs he now knew were planted everywhere, Jensen finally felt like he had come home. Maybe this new life wouldn’t be so impossible, after all.

~~~

  
 **Chapter 5:**  
Jensen’s first trip to a truly alien world that was different yet _inviting_ didn’t come until after he’d completed basic and linguistics training and was assigned to his permanent team. He was a little disappointed to discover he’d been added to Lt. Col. Kane’s team. It could have been flattering, being picked for the training director’s personal team, but he got the distinct impression Kane resented him (or more specifically, he hated Jensen’s guts) despite Jensen’s scores and training successes. Jensen was pretty sure someone else was foisting him off on Kane over Kane’s objections. Rumor had it Major Simmons was being groomed to lead his own team in the very near future, and Kane’s team had to have five people, so Jensen was the logical choice.

Only Jensen soon realize his situation was far more unusual than that.

“Normally, someone with your skills would go into a negotiation or strategy unit,” Dr. Cassidy, who kept insisting he call her Katie, had told him. “Legal training means you’re at an advantage when it comes to learning and understanding the rules and codes of newly acquainted species and cultures.”

“So why am I being assigned to what is primarily a combat unit?” Jensen asked, bewildered.

“Your genetic expression, genotype and phenotype,” she added with a giggle. “They’re not willing to... waste someone with your genetic assets on that kind of limited work.”

Jensen had frowned at her in confusion. “Why would diplomacy and negotiations be a waste of my skills? I mean I get ORDA’s a military organization, but are they really so hawkish they prefer to shoot their way through interplanetary relations?” He had scoffed, but his stomach had done a funny twisting thing that he didn’t want to acknowledge and he immediately worried Katie would tell him that was exactly how ORDA was.

“I know you’re not used to it yet, Jensen.” Katie had already taken to calling him by his first name, at least when there were no superior officers around. They were the same rank now, although she had significantly more time in rank than Jensen and could certainly have demanded he observe rank formalities, she showed absolutely no inclination to do so. “ _They_ are you. You are part of ORDA, you’re one of us. And while that royally sucks ass in a very bad way a lot of the time, sometimes it is absolutely the best fucking thing in your life. The only thing that can save you.”

Jensen had opened his mouth to make a snarky comment, but then he noticed how serious and understanding Katie looked, and he shut his jaw with an audible clack.

“They take diplomacy very seriously. There are enough times we find ourselves in a mess without any options. We don’t go seeking out trouble.” Katie had looked away.

“Then why—”

“They can train people in law. They can train scientists. They can send people to school, and they can run us all through the best military training on this planet and several others. But no matter how hard they try or how much research we’ve done, we can’t give anyone what you have,” Katie explained.

“So that wasn’t a bunch of lip service to make me feel special?” Jensen asked with a false laugh.

“The only way we’ve successfully given anyone the gene therapy is by intentionally exposing them to the nanolumes.” Katie looked a little sad as she spoke. “We haven’t gotten that far with our research on vector delivery for DNA we’ve extracted from markers. It could be another 50 or even 100 years before we make progress on that front.”

“They really self-destruct if you try to research them? The nanolumes, I mean?” Jensen queried.

“Yup.” Katie had laughed then. But before Jensen had gone off to join his new team, she had stopped him. “Jensen, watch yourself.”

He’d paused, turned, and looked over his shoulder.

“The placement on Kane’s team. Someone else is pulling the strings, and until you know who it is and what they want from you... I’m not saying don’t trust your team, just watch your back. They may try to test you. There was talk before...” She shook her head.

“Talk?”

“Someone or someones wanted to intercept you before you started training,” she’d replied.

“Why wouldn’t they want me trained if I’m so valuable?” Jensen wondered aloud.

“Because your body, your mind, your physical self could be useful in all kinds of ways that don’t value you as a sentient being.” Katie inclined her head at him. “It’s like Lt. Col. Collins said. ORDA has factions and competing schools of thought. Sometimes our biggest battles are internal—they fight for the upper hand.”

Jensen had angered at that, the burn of betrayal igniting anew. “Then why didn’t Misha tell me that?”

“Because right now, it’s taking all he has to keep his head down and focus on his mission. You were always an anchor for him, safe harbor.”

“And now I’m what? Tainted? Someone he can ignore or throw—”

“Now you’re in the same mess as the rest of us. You’re not safe, and nothing he can do can keep you safe. He could be ordered to send you to your death, and he just doesn’t know how to wrap his head around that yet.” Katie didn’t sound disapproving, but her tone was a warning. “Give him some time to find his new equilibrium.”

So now Jensen found himself as the sixth wheel on a well-oiled five-man machine. And five-man literally. Everyone on Lt. Col. Kane’s team was male. Male and straight from the looks of it, which had Jensen feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

In addition to Kane there was Major Simmons, who Jensen would ostensibly be replacing. Simmons was tall, stocky, muscular, and imposing. His Liverpudlian accent still slipped through when they weren’t in public, but he did a decent imitation of a gruff and disapproving Southern boy when he was around civilians. He seemed to see through Jensen as if he were transparent and his disdainful, condescending attitude suggested he didn’t like what he saw and found him distinctly lacking. It reminded Jensen of a lot of jocks he’d know in high school who’d given him shit for doing gymnastics and cheering. He hadn’t been out then—to do so in Texas in the mid-1990s would have been a particularly painful form of suicide. But Jensen’s sexuality had been more or less an open secret. He’d never been particularly successful at passing, and he’d looked _pretty_ enough he would have been harassed even if he’d actually been straight as a tangent.

Next was Staff Sergeant Barnes. Barnes had kept his NCO status when moving over from the USMC. He was Kane’s height, had dark skin, ridiculously developed muscles, and a regulation buzz cut, and sounded like a stereotypical drill sergeant when he spoke. He wasn’t quite as openly hostile to Jensen as Kane or Simmons were, but he seemed to think Jensen’s very presence was an affront to proper military protocol, and treated him accordingly.

Next was Specialist Mirakimi, their linguist. Rumor had it he’d been a linguist in the US air force when his exceptional skill with learning languages caught someone at ORDA’s attention. A clandestine blood test had confirmed his marker status, and he’d been transferred, processed and read into the program before he’d had time to write home. He seemed mostly okay, but regarded Barnes, Simmons, and Kane with a degree of awe and hero worship that made Jensen skittish around him. Jensen got the idea he didn’t really trust Jensen anyway, so the feeling was mutual.

Last was 1st Lt. Hodge, the only member of the team who seemed not to mind Jensen or his non-military past, in fact he seemed almost excited to have Jensen around. He was tall, and gangly, and _young_ , and approached his job and their mission with a kind of barely restrained glee that reminded Jensen a lot of Aiden Ford from Stargate Atlantis... only the comparison made Jensen really uncomfortable because of that character’s ridiculously unfortunate demise. Hodge was another born marker (as was Mirakimi, but not Simmons, Barnes, or Kane), whose curiosity and over-achievement at Annapolis had put him on ORDA’s radar by the end of his second year. They’d let him finish his degree at the academy, but had whisked him off to Seattle for full-time team placement as soon as he’d been commissioned. Apparently, the Navy had been really pissed to lose one of their best and brightest rising stars, and the Generals had had to get involved in order to avoid an international incident.

“I just think it’s kinda funny, ‘cause this shit? I used to have lightsaber battles with my brother and sister when we were kids. And now here I am, it’s cooler than my wildest dreams,” Hodge said, leaning towards Jensen’s locker with a conspiratorial grin.

Jensen nodded trying not to flinch as he thought about his vivid fantasy life, which had failed to give him any comfort since he’d found out aliens were real and quite probably wanted to kill him. “That’s cool,” he muttered, trying to keep focused on retrieving and organizing his gear. The only similarity between the inventory of his field pack and the messenger bag he’d carried for years was both contained a laptop. Although there wasn’t all that much similarity between his military-issue ruggedized, tricked out laptop and the sleek wide-screen laptop he’d used as a lawyer.

“Oh geez, man. I bet you were the same, right? I remember Lt. Col. Collins saying something about his husband being a sci fi geek. Only I’m betting this kinda sucks for you, because you didn’t go into a line of work where you get shot at.”

Jensen turned to look at Hodge, one hand still resting on his tac vest where it was hanging inside his locker. “Well lawyers get shot and shot at sometimes, but it’s not really part of the job description, no.”

He went back to loading his gear, shuddering a little as he checked his supply of grenades, flash bangs, and C4. They weren’t supposed to need this stuff where they were going. M’Nell, the planet they were traveling to, was one of the worlds controlled by the Phvanzi long time allies, who’d never had any hostilities with Earth. But according to the very vague instructions Jensen’s training class had received, there were some ‘unstable elements’ operating in the galactic community at the moment, and ORDA wasn’t taking any chances. Even research teams on Earth-controlled planets (and how weird a thought was that?) were going around combat ready.

“You’ll do fine, sir,” Hodge said with a half-chuckle. “A lot of this stuff is instinctual,” he must have caught something in Jensen’s expression, because his expression shifted to one of genuine sympathy, “although I’m pretty sure you already know that. So, rather than being reassuring, I’m coming across as a total asshole.”

That got Jensen’s attention. He looked up again from struggling with the zip and clips on his vest and met Hodge’s eyes. “Why do you care?” He asked, his voice sounding bitter and accusatory to his own ears.

Hodge let out a low whistle. “Okay, I know Kane and most of his guys are grade-A motherfuckers, but I am not out to get you. Frankly I’ll be thrilled to finally have someone semi-sane to talk to. I’ve tried working on Mirakimi, but he got here before me, and he’s entirely too in awe of triumvirate badass to think objectively.”

“Triumvirate badass,” Jensen parroted, slapping a hand over his mouth when he realized how loudly he’d said it. A quick look around confirmed he and Hodge were alone in the locker room. The others on their team had cleared out and headed to the staging area.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go reporting me for calling them that, but yeah, that’s how they act. They’re all a little too caught up in their ranks and positions and job descriptions to be rational or objective. This is a little too much like a game or club for them, and they don’t like it when they have to work with people who don’t meet their definition of badass.”

Jensen nodded. “Uh, don’t worry, Lieutenant, I won’t say anything.”

Hodge cocked his hear to the side, “You’re really uncomfortable with rank, aren’t you?”

Jensen buckled the last clip on his vest, checked his side arm in the still-unfamiliar weight of his thigh holster, and stalled, “Uh...” He had no idea how to respond.

“Look, don’t worry, I’m not going to get you in trouble. For one thing, it would be difficult and look bad since you outrank me—”

“Provisionally,” Jensen said glumly.

“Ah, see that, that’s Kane’s influence.” Hodge was holding up his pointer finger, shaking it at Jensen as if he was scolding him. “Yeah, your rank is technically provisional until your first 6 months are up, but that doesn’t mean you’re on probation or that other people get to treat you as a doormat. If anything, the provisional status is there to protect you,” he pointed at Jensen, his finger almost jabbing against Jensen’s tac vest, “give you more leeway and time to come up to speed on ORDA protocol and procedure so you don’t get written up for having non-reg facial hair or failing to salute or any of a number of things you would have normally had years to learn and get used to. It doesn’t mean assholes get to disrespect you or dump on you. Anyone goes too far with that, report them or write them up—that’s why you also get a liaison officer outside your unit in case you get hazed or harassed by someone within your direct chain of command.” Hodge was looking at him nervously, now. No, not nervously, almost... protectively, which was all kinds of wrong since Hodge was the better part of a decade younger than him and technically his subordinate and...

Realization hit Jensen so hard he actually jerked back. “That’s what Major Harris is for... Or, I mean. Kane said she was my liaison officer, but he didn’t say what...” Jensen let out a long sigh. “Sorry, I should know this.”

“You’re right that you should, but it’s not your fault that you don’t,” Hodge said seriously. “It’s Lt. Col. Kane’s job in training to explain the role of a liaison officer. He doesn’t see it as important, thinks it’s coddling you and people like you, so he ignores it.”

“But that’s not really his place, is it?” Jensen asked.

Hodge gave him a pained grimace and shrugged. “That’s something you can bring up with Major Harris. I’m not in a position to say anything without being insubordinate and looking like a tool.”

Jensen chuckled at that. “Office politics without the office... I thought I avoided some of that bullshit by opting out of the big firm route,” Jensen added wistfully.

Hodge regarded him again giving him an up-and-down glance. “You probably figured out they don’t like you because you were a civilian before you got here and you’re gay.”

Jensen winced at that. “I haven’t been in the closet since I left for college. I almost lost my relationship with my parents in the process, but I wouldn’t for a moment go back in.” Especially not for jerks like Kane and his lackeys. Jensen shrugged again, at a loss for how to express his feelings about the situation. “But it’s not like I could even if I wanted to. Everyone knows Misha—sorry, Lt. Col. Collins—is my husband.”

“Well, you’ve probably noticed they may not _like_ Lt. Col. Collins, but you notice even Lt. Col. Kane respects him. That’s ‘cause whatever else he is or was before he got here, they know he can damn well hold his own in a fight, and he’s a good officer. That he’s always had more time in rank than Kane helps too—they can’t openly deride him. But they are the kind of guys who used to bemoan how ORDA had to make allowances for _inferior_ personnel, and how if they were back in the ‘real’ military they wouldn’t have to put up with it.”

Jensen laughed a little at that. “Bet they were a joy to be around when DADT was repealed.”

Hodge actually winced at that. “Ah, man, you have no idea.”

Jensen regarded Hodge thoughtfully as he shouldered his pack and closed his locker. “Sounds like you’ve had personal experience with their bullshit.”

Hodge was silent for a few moments as they started walking, but before they reached the staging room, he began to speak in a soft, quiet tone. “Well, I’m newest on the team before you. When your husband got promoted, he snatched Capt. Padalecki off this team. Kane was newly in command himself, and Simmons hadn’t been promoted yet. Kane had been working with Padalecki in the field since he came into the program...” Hodge trailed off.

It was no wonder if Jensen’s expression looked anywhere as confused as he felt. “But Misha and Jared,” he didn’t stop to correct himself on using their first names, “they’ve been working together for years.”

“In their cover jobs, yeah, but Padalecki’s only been on Collins’ team for a little over a year. Kane even tried to use their work situation as an excuse to block the transfer. Too much risk it could blow their cover if they were both incapacitated at the same time. None of the Generals, ‘cept Lehne, and that’s just ‘cause he’s got a hard on for Kane, even entertained the idea. And soon as Gen. Johnson pointed out their teams were often both on assignment at the same time already, even he shut up about it.” Hodge shrugged. “Kane kinda resents me for not being Padalecki, and he’ll probably take some of his bitterness towards Collins out on you. That’s just how he is. But I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks man,” Jensen replied sincerely. Something about Hodge’s story bothered him, though. “Wait, so what did you do before this team. You’ve been here since you graduated, right?”

“Ah, I was on a kickass R&D team. Cool gadgets. Alien weapons. You name it, it was awesome shit. But I’m a marker, and a pretty strong one at that, and they wanted me to get more combat experience.”

“Sorry dude, that sucks,” Jensen said with genuine dismay.

“Nah, don’t worry about me. Besides, it’s not all bad. Like the planet we’re about to check out, it’s gorgeous.”

Jensen was a little skeptical about any planets being “gorgeous” after what he’d visited in training. Everywhere they’d been was either mind-numbingly boring or outright hostile and unpleasant. Kane had made the trainee cadets spend so much time training in ‘limit’ environments pushing the edges of their endurance and tolerance and even more time familiarizing them with the different unpleasant biofeedback the WMDs provided when they opened a wormhole to a limit or incompatible environment, Jensen was dreading the moment they stepped through the aperture, even, no _especially_ because he wasn’t the one using the WMD. He knew academically and from training he couldn’t step through a wormhole to a truly incompatible planet. He was 99% confident his body’s biochemistry would actually cause the wormhole to collapse, but he hated the anticipation, and not being the one actually in control of opening the wormhole meant he had no biofeedback preview of what was on the other side.

So, he followed Hodge through with gritted teeth, anticipating instant nausea, dizziness, or worse, only to emerge into an almost idyllic setting lit by soft, soothing green light. They were standing in the middle of a field with blue-green grass and pink-and-yellow wild flowers dotting the landscape. The field seemed to stretch on for miles around them. The air was pleasantly warm, somewhere in the high seventies on the Fahrenheit scale with a pleasant salty-tanged breeze. The salt cued Jensen in to the glint of azure sea water about a mile or so away to the...he had no idea what direction—he’d guess west judging by the apparent position of the yellow-green sun, but he had no idea how this planet rotated or if its inhabitants used the same directional system. Around the shoreline he could make out an actual seaport with some sort of large white vessels that could have easily been the local equivalent of container ships or even some kind of ferries, flanked by smaller vessels in a variety of pastel colors, and blue, green, and white buildings running along the shoreline. He turned, noticing a forest of some sort with trees or the local equivalent in a slightly darker shade than the grass. They looked a little like giant ferns or something that would have been at home on Earth in the Mesozoic. Turning farther still he noticed what appeared to be a very tall, compact city with a mixture of sparkling buildings reminiscent of lighter-colored skyscrapers on Earth and less-shiny, cylindrical buildings in a variety of pastel colors. Around the tall, central city, which might have been a couple of miles away, were a series of widely spaced lower clusters of buildings that might have been towns or suburbs.

 _It was beautiful. Jensen would give them that._

The rest of the mission was relatively uneventful, but somewhat unsettling, and Jensen got the feeling he was missing something _big_ the entire time.

The Phvanzi picked them up in one a mag-lev trams that ran into the central city. There, they met with a diplomatic delegation. Beyond some basic trade formalities, the purpose of the mission was for Mirakimi to interview a Phvanzi man from a remote colony called Sbelt’ahe. The young colony had been destroyed when the previously stable planet went through an unexpected chain reaction of seismic events and rapid climate change.

Hodge kept mumbling about what a tragedy it was, but Jensen thought he was picking up on something else.

He wasn’t the one translating, and of course he a translator by trade, but Jensen’s Marker genes kept giving him _insights_ that had him half-understanding the man’s unusual dialect. And he was pretty sure the guy was saying something about “invisible beings” and “strange, ancient symbols” people walking through walls of rock before the world ended.

He had no idea if that’s what Mirakimi translated, but it made him wonder. The Phvanzi hadn’t settled that world for very long, so why would there be _ancient_ symbols there? From what Jensen gathered, it was a previously uninhabited world. He couldn’t shake his questions even when they’d safely returned to Earth.

 

~~~

Missions, training, and paperwork, soon replaced the rhythm of classes and instruction he’d fallen into in his first three months. He was on Earth most of the time now, and allowed to come and go from the base. He saw Misha a lot more—and Jared—and his friendships with Hodge and Dr. Cassidy—who kept insisting he call her Katie, were deepening, but he still felt lost, adrift.

The more time he spent around seasoned ORDA personnel—as opposed to the cadets he’d spent time with in training, the more he got the feeling they were hiding something. And not in the sense that there were people with higher security clearances than him—no, that was obviously the case.

It was more that there was a constant buzz of urgency and panic hovering around the base. At first he’d just dismissed it as being an artifact of being stationed at ORDA’s headquarters. General Ferris and General Lehne—two of the five Generals on the Governing Council—were both stationed at the Seattle HQ and used it as the launch point for their Earth-based operations. There were regular Planetary Security Council meetings, summits with dignitaries from Earth governments and alien planets alike, and a near constant influx of casualties—Headquarters’ Medical Wing combined with secured sections of the UW Medical Center up above served as the premiere ORDA medical facility on Earth. More serious cases were always eventually sent offworld to M’Nell—apparently they had the best hospitals in the galaxy—but HQ was the triage center. So it was understandable that people were stressed out.

But then he started to wonder why there were _so many_ injuries. And then there were the whispers. People stopped talking when he walked in the room, and it wasn’t just around officers who knew his relationship to Misha and might be a bit awkward about it. It seemed like _everyone_ had been given a briefing that told them to hush up, when they saw Jensen coming. He heard snippets sometimes—words like missing and Li—something, attack, untraceable, and fleet. He had no idea what it meant or even if the words he’d heard might terms of art, but something big, and _terrifying_ was going on, and he didn’t know.

He could tell Misha and Jared and Katie and Lt. Hodge knew… and they didn’t—or couldn’t—tell him. So everywhere he went, even on the rare evening he got to relax at home with Misha, he still felt like a stranger, locked on the outside, looking in.

It was that feeling of constant isolation that found Jensen spending his rare full day off at home, alone, on the couch.

The lock opened with a snick, letting a small beam of light into the room as the door pushed inward. The beam expanded into a pool as the light near the door switched on.

The light didn’t reach Jensen. He was still shrouded in darkness. How fitting.

Silence followed. Jensen silently counted the seconds one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi... only a little voice in the back of his mind kept saying “Mibbibbippi” instead, trying to make him laugh. And he wanted to laugh because he was pretty sure his life was fast approaching John Chricton levels of mind fuckery, and Jensen desperately wanted a release. But if he started laughing now, he might never stop.

Something shuffled out of the pool of light only to pause again.

 _Five Mississippi, six Mississippi, seven..._

“Are you _smoking_?” Misha asked incredulously. He made a noisy scoffing sound and crossed the room to the far end of the couch with hurried strides. “Oh my god, you are smoking. What the hell, you don’t smoke!”

Misha was close enough now, flapping his hands in the air as if pushing the smoke away, that Jensen couldn’t resist the urge to sneak a glance sideways. He didn’t turn his head, just looked over.

Misha’s expression was a pained mix of anger, confusion, and concern that shifted into muted fury when he caught Jensen’s eye.

“Do you know how bad that is for you?” His eyes darted to the mostly empty, sweating glass of scotch dangling from Jensen’s left hand. “Especially while you’re drinking! What am I saying?” Misha’s hands swept up to tear at his close cropped hair. “Of course you know, you were an enviro science major, and bio minor in undergrad. Fuck! Do you know how hard the smell is going to be to get out of—everything?”

“I smoked in law school. Not much, not steadily, just sometimes.” Jensen snorted. “It’s almost impossible to get through law school without smoking. Between the stress and the alcohol and the—the high school levels of peer pressure, they should just issue you a pack of Marlboro Lights at the door.” He paused taking another long drag, fighting the urge to cough and choke. He’d hate himself in the morning, when he remembered there were even bigger reasons why he didn’t smoke than health and hygiene, like how nicotine left him feeling burned out and raw, jittery, and too tight in his skin. But that was for later. In the morning. Assuming there _was_ a morning, at least for him. Sure, Jensen had always had a very vivid imagination, and he was greedy with his forays into day dreaming bliss. But he wasn’t imagining Kane’s behavior or Barnes’s attitude, or the hungry-desperate look Katie got every time she saw him. He had ideas of what it meant, ideas that made him afraid to face a new day, ideas that pushed his buttons ‘til he was _almost_ suicidal, ideas that suggested it didn’t matter how he felt or what he wanted very bad things were headed this way.

The only questions were _how_ bad and how _much_ time did they have.

“Jensen—” Misha tried again when Jensen’s silence stretched on too long. The aborted frustration in his voice tinged with something darker—fear.

And that was what Jensen had been looking for. Misha wasn’t unfeeling, wasn’t immune... He actually cared.

Jensen didn’t know how to feel about that, though, because while it meant Misha was still a thinking, breathing, feeling human being underneath the carefully programmed and formatted exterior, it meant there was something to fear. Something even Misha feared.

Jensen exhaled, watching the smoke waft towards the ceiling and escaping through the narrow gap made by the partially open sliding glass balcony door. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Misha’s feet shuffled, and he let out a clipped whining grunt.

“Don’t even think about lying to me.” Words were tumbling out of Jensen’s mouth now faster than he realized the thoughts. Scotch and nicotine combining in his system to set free every connection and suspicion and observation he’d had in the last three months but hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge or voice, lest the pieces click together and form truth. “You think I haven’t noticed the way conversations stop when I come in the room, even though I’ve been officially a part of ORDA for months now? Or how Kane looks at me sometimes like he wants to take me apart, see what makes me tick, use me? How Katie’s a little bit afraid of me and kind of in awe, and I can see the questions behind her eyes and she just won’t ask. Or Sergeant Barnes—he looks at me like I’m a solution.” Jensen could keep going. There were a hundred little things that had added up to lead him to this conclusion, and part of him wanted to go through every single one. He hated being on the inside, and feeling more lost and clueless than he was before.

But this wasn’t about Jensen. It was much bigger.

“I see how scared you are,” he added with less heat. “I see it in everyone, but me. You’ve been going out more and more, you’re hardly even pretending to go in to work at Enviropreserve anymore.” Jensen paused, thinking. That had bothered him more than anything else. Misha claimed to love his cover job, and at first Jensen had thought maybe that was an act that Misha had felt comfortable dropping now that Jensen knew. But it Misha really _did_ love the work. And the Council wouldn’t just let Misha risk blowing his cover because he felt like it.

And Jared was still going in as frequently as ever, and Genevieve said something that made him think Jared had given her a cover story for Misha’s frequent absences. “ORDA wouldn’t risk blowing your cover unless it was important.” Jensen turned away from the hole he was staring into the wall and tried to meet Misha’s eyes, but Misha was focused on his hands, steadfast and unmoving. Jensen could tell he was shaken, but beyond that...

“Jensen, no, I can’t—”

“You can’t? Because honestly? If we’re gonna talk about _can’t_ , I can’t do this. Can’t and won’t. I can’t do my best, learn this, figure out what I have to do, if I don’t know what the fuck is going on or where I fit into it. I _won’t_ put myself in danger or trust someone with the authority to risk my life—no matter how _cool_ the job is—if I don’t know the score.”

Misha looked away, crossing his arms and staring over his shoulder.

 _Maybe this isn’t about me at all? I could just be hyper aware of how everyone interacts with me..._ Jensen mused. _Right. Well then..._ He downed the rest of the scotch in his glass, swallowing hard against the burn. The cigarette was ashy and burned down almost to the filter, so he stubbed it out in the makeshift ashtray he’d created from a repurposed olive can. “Look, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s something that’s got everyone freaked, but it has nothing to do with me. I just think people are acting strange around me because supposed clearance or not, I’m not trusted yet. I don’t need to know, so it’s outside my purview. If that’s the case just say so.”

Misha fidgeted.

“Or say whatever you can, and I’ll do my best to accept that I’m working and living in a situation where I just don’t get to know everything. Just—just look at me and tell me.”

Jensen was backpedaling now, and rather frantically. The insistent voice at the back of his head was screaming that as long as they were going to put him in danger, he still deserved—needed—to know why. But Misha was still standing there, not looking at him, no longer pissed about the smoking, not responding at all, and...

Jensen breathed in, calming himself despite the hitch and catch of air courtesy of the two cigarettes he’d smoked. “But if this is about me. If somehow I factor in to whatever it is that’s got people scared, I need to know. You _need_ to tell me, or I can’t do this,” he shook his head, “I can’t, and I won’t.”

Jensen watched as Misha’s jaw clenched, a muscle in his temple twitched, and something seemed to break behind his eyes. Still he didn’t speak.

“Misha?” Jensen whispered, his voice shaky. He stood, pulling himself up with slow, cautious movements, bracing himself against the back of the couch as adrenaline flooded his system, mixing with the alcohol and nicotine already there to leave him feeling jumpy and rung out—ready to run, yet sliding towards collapse. “You can’t protect me. If it’s about me—not knowing isn’t making me any safer.”

Misha gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as a keening moan, a noise of pure anguish, broke from his lips.

Alarmed, Jensen started to move towards Misha.

But Misha was faster. Before Jensen had completed a shuffling step between the coffee table and couch, Misha had thrown up his hands, tearing ineffectually at his hair on the way, before closing the space between them, a finger to his lips and a hand around Jensen’s bicep. “Damnit, I really need you sober for this,” he muttered before Jensen could ask what was going on. “Come on,” Misha whispered.

As confused and alarmed as his mind was, his body trusted Misha. Jensen complied in silence as Misha backed him out from between the couch and table and over to the sliding door.

Misha spared a glance at the half-empty bottle stashed by the coffee table, wincing and muttering, before unlocking the door, opening it, and maneuvering them outside in one fluid motion.

Of course Jensen broke the spell when he overbalanced and caught his ankle on one of the deck chairs. He flailed his arms, eyes comically wide, before Misha caught him and lowered Jensen into the chair.

“You’re so going to regret this in the morning,” Misha grumbled as he closed the unlocked door behind them. “Seriously, you couldn’t at least drink some _good_ scotch?”

“Like I’d waste it on getting hammered?” Jensen slurred.

That earned him a snort, but then Misha’s features fell, amusement and affectionate exasperation replaced by sorrow and fear.

“Look—” Jensen swallowed. Maybe he was pushing too far. “I really don’t want to get you in trouble—or me—so you don’t have to—”

“No,” Misha interjected. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and flopped down in the seat opposite Jensen, legs splayed wide, elbows resting on his knees. “This—” he made a sweeping gesture, “this isn’t for them. It’s for me.”

Jensen didn’t _say_ “huh” aloud, but his confusion clearly showed on his face.

Misha smiled, a nervous smile, but real. “Let me try that again,” he offered as he reached out and tangled his fingers with Jensen’s. “Some people will be upset that I’m telling you this. Like Kane.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. Nothing surprising there. Jensen considered himself lucky if Kane deigned to tell him what a mission was about before they embarked on it. He usually just ordered Jensen to suit up and expected him to comply with whatever orders he barked.

“Kane’s idea of what people need to know tends to be a bit more... restrictive than the majority of officers in the ORDA heirarchy. Normally he doesn’t complain about it because that would be questioning orders, which goes against every fiber of his being, but he’ll probably make an exception here.” Misha squeezed Jensen’s hand, “Part of it is because he resents you—and that’s mostly an extension of how he feels about me—but there’s...” Misha trailed off, biting his lip. “Let’s just say Kane will see it as an unnecessary loss of control, which he’ll think is a serious strategic failure that will endanger planetary security.”

“Buh?” Jensen managed, confused.

“I know. I promise it will make more sense later. I mean I doubt you’ll agree, but you’ll probably understand. Everyone else—” he shrugged. “General Ferris will be pleased. Her orders are to discuss this with you when necessary. If she wasn’t taking the concerns of the assistant directors under advisement, she personally would have defined ‘necessary’ as being a while back.”

“The others don’t feel the same?” Jensen prodded.

“I’m not sure about everyone—there are four other generals on the Directorial Council and I only know two of them with any degree of familiarity. Gen. Johnson will probably be pleased. I don’t really know about Generals Bellman or Li… Gen. Lehne...” Misha trailed off, biting his lip again.

“Let me guess, he’s the reason I don’t already know whatever it is you’re going to tell me?” Jensen let out a long sigh. He’d only met Gen. Lehne twice and had been impressed by Gen. Lehne’s creepy coldness both times.

“You could say that,” Misha agreed. “But like I said, that’s not why we’re talking out here. There’re... personal details that aren’t in any of the official reports, secrets entrusted to me that I have the responsibility to only share with discretion, and... I can’t do that if we have this conversation where others can hear.”

Something didn’t quite add up, and Jensen was already regretting his current lack of sobriety. Misha was opening his mouth to speak again when the synapses fired and Jensen’s question clicked into place. “Wait!” he said, throwing out his hand in the almost truly universal sign for ‘stop.’ “If we talk out here, isn’t that just going to make _them_ suspicious?”

“I won’t get in any trouble for it. Gen. Ferris knows what I’m going to tell you, and she’ll silence any protests.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry smile, “But don’t be surprised if Kane just adds it to the list of things he’s pissed about.”

Jensen snorted. “Somehow, I don’t think he needs any help with that list.” He looked at Misha, waiting.

Misha didn’t speak, just looked down and focused on their hands.

“So...”

“So,” Misha echoed. “Guess I’m really doing this,” he added to himself as his thumb rubbed faster across the back of Jensen’s hand, squeezing. “Well it starts off with how we’re at war.”

Jensen flinched, his hand twitching in Misha’s. It was a surprise, but not really. He’d _expected_ something like that… there were just too many awkward silences, too many secrets, too much tension.

“General Ferris told you I was promoted from Major to Lieutenant Colonel and took command of a team when my former commanding officer died?” Misha asked.

“Yeah,” Jensen confirmed. “She didn’t give me many details though.”

Misha nodded. “Colonel Morgan—Jeff—he was one of my best friends. A great mentor I’d known him since I was exposed and inducted into ORDA. We didn’t work together the whole time, but we… moved in the same circles, the same… faction, if you will. I’d been on his team since General Ferris was a Brigadier General—one-star.” Misha smiled, his face tight, eyes sad. “It was just supposed to be a diplomatic mission, we had an Entath liaison. It was going to be a walk in the park.. an annoying walk in the park, but still, easy. We were supposed to go to a Mariners game together afterwards, even though both of us hated baseball. Instead I spent a week in the hospital and he didn’t come home.”

“When?” Jensen asked, wondering how he could have missed his husband being _hospitalized_ for a week.

“May… a year ago. I—do you remember when I got quarantined in Greenland because one of the researchers came down with meningitis?”

“Yeah,” Jensen recalled. Misha had sounded _sad_ then, but he hadn’t been able to place or understand the emotion at the time.

“Well, I was in a hospital… actually in the medical wing here, for most of that time. That’s how it works. We get hurt, they give us cover.”

As Misha talked, Jensen could see his husband drifting back to that day in his mind. It had been a normal mission, they were being introduced to the Licinians, a supposedly peaceful race who controlled a number of worlds, including a large number of uninhabitable planets they used for harvesting gases, minerals, and other natural resources. They had signed a nonaggression treaty with the Fropali, a space-traveling race whose homeworld was on the other side of the galaxy and traveled around playing galactic policeman in big ships. They kind of reminded Jensen of the Asgard, only apparently they were furry and definitely not clones.

Licinians were adaptable with color-change skin and capable of camouflaging themselves—”think disillusionment charm from _Harry Potter_ ,” Misha explained—and were rumored to be able to survive in a wide array of environments. The AB15er historians found them to be an interesting people with many connections and territories, and thus, invaluable trading partners. The meeting started well with all six of the members of Col. Morgan’s team making their introductions and navigating the unfamiliar protocol. Misha remembered a tense moment—something being a little _off_ —when the Licinian leader asked to see his WMD, but then everything went back to normal. They went on a tour, talks continued. They were supposed to gather for formal trade negotiations in the Licinians’ main hall when the Licinians turned the buildings’ automatic defenses on them. Plasma rifles cut down the members of Morgan’s team. Slamming into them with concussive blasts as the plasma caused burns. Misha had managed to escape the initial onslaught, and Morgan had shouted him to come back with reinforcements.

Misha had run clear, opened a wormhole to a safe intermediary, then home to earth, and returned in ten minutes with seventy-five men and women. Everyone was already dead. The Licinians killed five more humans in the ensuing battle, as well as their Entath guide.

Now, the Licinians had launched a fleet of ships that was heading towards Earth. The ships were armed, and they wouldn’t respond to hails or state their purpose, but ORDA believed it carried an invasion army. Then the Licinians started popping up and moving around on Earth, and despite ORDA’s wormhole tracking abilities, they were having trouble tracking the licinians.

Each day, more and more teams of Licinians were popping up by wormhole. They’d started attacking known artifact sites almost weekly—one of the attacks had caused Misha’s injuries the previous winter. On at least three occasions ORDA had tracked so far, the Licinian incursions had been followed by seismic or climatic events—an ice sheet had collapsed, and two earthquakes had happened, even though none of the areas was previously thought to be unstable.

Worse, the Licinians interlopers had started kidnapping civilians and taking them offworld. They hadn’t confirmed it yet, but the Governing Council believed the Licinians were taking them to incompatible environments and committing quick and dirty murders.

That night, Jensen lay awake beside Misha, unable to sleep, his mind racing, reeling with his newfound understanding. Earth was under attack, at war, and Misha had been out there fighting it on the front lines for over a year. He’d lost friends and mentors, and right now, ORDA, the agency tasked with protecting the planet, didn’t have a clue what the Licinians wanted or how to stop them. Hours later, when Jensen finally drifted off to sleep, he dreamed—only it wasn’t his dream. Bits and pieces of the scenes Misha had relayed drifted through as if Jensen was seeing Misha’s memories through his eyes.

~~~

 **Chapter 6:**  
Now that Jensen knew what was going on, work felt a little less strained, but some of his coworkers seemed to be having trouble adjusting. Mostly Jensen just wanted to find out everything he could and _help_. His planet, his home, was under attack, and as a Marker, he was in a position to be able to do something about it. As far as he was concerned, it was about time he started pulling his weight.

“Any ideas?” Jensen asked Dr. Cassidy—Katie, he corrected himself—as he leaned over the stark, white lab counter at which she was seated. He was tempted to lean, elbows itching to drop down on the surface so he could get a closer look at what she was working on, but he knew better, and didn’t want to contaminate the surface. While he’d washed his hands before entering the room, he doubted his field uniform was sterile enough, even freshly laundered as it was, to satisfy Katie’s lab sterilization protocols.

Katie was wearing a ubiquitous white lab coat over her blue scrub-like research uniform, her long blond hair was braided and pinned up into a haphazard sort of bun just above the collar of her lab coat. Everything about her attire spoke “sterile” and “indoors.” She wouldn’t have been out of place in any ordinary hospital.

Jensen had been bothered by the seeming inequity in uniforms between science staff and “field assets” since he’d been sucked into ORDA. They’d explained it as a combination of practicality and camouflage. Scrubs made sense in the labs; they were designed to be comfortable for long hours while not getting in the way. They also blended in—since the main entrance to ORDA headquarters was through the UW’s Health Sciences complex, no one raised an eyebrow at people coming and going in scrubs. But there’d always been something else, something hiding under the surface, an unspoken ulterior purpose to the uniforms. It had taken a while, but eventually, he’d figured it out. _Control._

The uniform disparity also provided those in ORDA leadership who belonged to a certain mindset a great degree of control over the non-field personnel. Although everyone “got drafted” when they were brought into ORDA’s command hierarchy, those with alien-engineered genetic material, Markers, automatically became field assets. For everyone else, placement depended on one’s expertise and pre-disclosure employment history. Usually military, LEOs, intelligence operatives, diplomats, and certain people with experience in certain communications disciplines wound up in the field, but everyone else got sorted to scientific and support staff. Those non-Markers on field teams got to wear uniforms like Jensen’s, but they lived and worked with the knowledge they were wholly dependent on their team leaders and other Markers on the team, and could be stranded, trapped, or killed at any time. For the base and lab personnel the use of scrubs served as a reminder of the individuals’ lesser worth (and tenuous status) in the eyes of ORDA command. The clothes provided little protection, provided no easy means of carrying a weapon, and conjured associations to prisons and mental institution—locations, rumor had it, where one was likely to end up, _if lucky_ , when one stepped out of bounds.

The uniforms were a constant reminder of the distinctions. Unless Katie was somehow accidentally exposed to nanolumes, her only options were lab work, and the constant reminder of the power ORDA held over her, or field work and the constant threat of getting left. As it was, her duties as a doctor meant ORDA command tried to keep her on base as much as possible. Even thought she was part of Misha’s team he was often pressured to leave her behind. Katie was trapped and her uniform was psychological warfare masquerading as common sense.

It took Jensen a few moments to realize Katie was staring at him, her face showing a mixture of perplexion and amusement.

She gestured to a stool that was tucked under the far end of the lab bench. “Why don’t you have a seat so you stop twitching like you’re going to contaminate my table,” she suggested with a wry grin.

As Jensen moved to comply, a repeat of his earlier question on the tip of his tongue, Katie spoke again.

“If you don’t mind waiting just a second, I’ve got to check the autoclave and put some samples in the centrifuge.” She glanced significantly at the ceiling.

And Jensen got it. She wasn’t ignoring him. Katie hadn’t forgotten his question. This wasn’t about personnel having trouble adjusting to Jensen’s new security clearance.

Katie couldn’t speak freely because there were recording devices in the lab and people were listening. And whenever people were listening, chances were there were some who couldn’t be trusted. Internal politics, warring factions… There were too many rival allegiances within ORDA and its network of intergovernmental liaisons to ever _trust_. Some of them _could_ be working against Earth’s security. Others _definitely_ saw their soldiers as resources, not people, nothing more than lab rats for experimentation.

Jensen looked up from his fidgeting hands. “I there anything I can do to help?”

Katie was already loading test tubes into a centrifuge two or three times larger than any Jensen had worked with in college. She smiled at him. “Sure, this is gonna take a minute, and I need to get the autoclave started so my equipment is ready for the next round. Do you mind?” she pointed towards a large green button mounted on the wall beside a super-sized autoclave. “Press that button for me? The cycle should be all set.”

“No problem.” He hopped off the stool, its metal feet grating on the floor with the enthusiasm of his movement. He pressed the button as instructed and returned to his seat, listening to the machine whir to life.

It took Katie a few minutes to finish arranging the tubes to be centrifuged, so Jensen sat, twisting side to side on the stool until she was done.

She set the centrifuge to spin and joined Jensen at the lab bench, resuming her position in front of two laptops and a microscope.

The combined noise of the two machines created a noticeable whir-and-hum combination, but it wasn’t so loud that ordinary speech would be difficult to distinguish. It was Jensen’s turn to glance over his shoulder at the place the camera and microphone dwelled and then raise and inquisitive eyebrow at Katie.

“It’s the frequency. Well that and the vibrations combined with the electromagnetic profile of the two machines. It interferes with the audio receptors in the mic. The security system picks up the machinery, but it sort of drowns out human speech. As long as you don’t shout, they won’t hear you.” As Katie spoke, she turned one of the laptops towards Jensen.

“They don’t get suspicious?” Jensen asked, peering at the screen, wondering what he was supposed to be looking at.

“As long as we look like we’re discussing lab results and not doing anything out of the ordinary, they just accept it as an unavoidable consequence of running a lab” She pointed at two windows that were open on the screen. “These are neurotransmitter profiles of random ORDA personnel who are markers. This is yours,” she pointed at one dataset. “I’m centrifuging treated blood samples and autoclaving a batch of sample dishes and test tubes. “Trust me: it looks like we’re having a very legitimate conversation… From their perspective I’m probably going to school you in how you’re not like other little boys,” she added with a teasing smile.

Jensen glared at Katie and then at the two windows on his screen, unsure if should be paying attention to them. He nodded, but couldn’t shake the frown that crept up on him. “Doesn’t it seem… odd…” he struggled for the right word, “or maybe a little _fucked up_ that you and your co-workers have established procedures for deceiving your bosses.”

“Yes,” Katie replied, expressionless, “but none of us are under the delusion ORDA is anything _but_ fucked up. It’s got all the problems, idiosyncrasies, and challenges of an intergovernmental task force, a military, an intelligence agency, and a major research organization combined. Plus, we’re isolated. ORDA doesn’t have anyone to talk to—it’s like the whole agency is in need of a shrink, and instead its neuroses have started to eat away at it from the inside” Her fingers clacked away at the keys on the laptop in front of her while she spoke. “Besides,” she added, her typing pausing, “it’s not usually this fucked up. The assassination of Col. Morgan and most of his team rocked ORDA to its foundations. We’ve never had an incident of that scale—or anything close to it—on a simple diplomatic mission before…” She cocked her head to the side as if considering something, “Yeah, not on a _simple_ diplomatic mission anyway…”

Before Jensen could wonder what she meant by that, she was talking again.

She slid to the edge of her stool, her hands clasped tightly together between her knees. “Jensen, we’ve never encountered _anything_ like this before.

“You mean this is a military organization that’s never been at war?” Jensen asked with a scoff.

“No. But we’ve never been attacked on our own planet without obvious motive or provocation before. We’ve never had threats on a planetary scale come from both ship and wormhole travel. And we’ve never met another civilization that could so thoroughly evade detection and tracking. Before your accident, we didn’t even have a clue _how_ they were doing it.”

“And now you do,” Jensen said, the uncertainty showing in his voice.

“Now we know it’s possible to create a stable wormhole with entrance and exit apertures within the atmosphere of a single planet using technology we already had. Or at least _some_ of the technology we already had,” Katie explained.

“And?”

“That’s what I wanted to show you. I think I know why.” Katie slid the second laptop towards him. “This is a chemical analysis compiled from the autopsy results of the four Licinian bodies that survived encounters intact enough to study.”

Jensen pulled the second laptop towards him, squinting to make out the miniscule text. He glanced from one screen to the other, searching. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until he noticed one particular bar on a graph. He looked. Looked again. One more detail caught his eye and he did a double-take, only realizing after the fact it might look a little—or a lot—suspicious on the surveillance feed.

“Translatoneuroloquoramine beta? Jensen asked. The unfamiliar substance showed up on all three sets of graphs—the survey of Markers, Jensen’s results, and the results from the— _heh_ —alien autopsies, but the bars were much longer in Jensen’s and the Licinians’ graphs. “I’ve got the same neurotransmitter as the Licinians killed here on Earth?

Katie nodded, an abrupt, curt movement, and gave a pained smile. “Yes, you do, well actually, all Markers do, but since you arrived, you’ve been producing tansolatoneuroloquoramine beta in much larger quantities than everyone else, quantities nearly identical to the Licinians.”

Jensen stared blankly at the two screens. “What are those?” he asked, pointing at a list of what he assumed were chemicals found in the Licinian autopsy and biochemical analysis reports that were designated only be numbers.

“Unidentified chemicals—they’re most likely neurotransmitters, hormones, pheremones, or some sort of proteins Licinians produced that we haven’t encountered before. We’re not sure what they do, and they’re not in any of our xenomedical databases or in any of the records our allies have shared or that we’ve otherwise acquired through conflict or by treaty,” Katie explained, her face scrunching into a scowl. “They could be byproducts of decomposition—we won’t be sure unless we get access to the Licinians’ medical records or run experiments on a living sp—”

“Living specimen. You were gonna say living specimen?” Jensen exclaimed, his tone wavering with immediate shock and broader cynicism, which was telling him the kind of disregard for other sentient life was _expected_ among some elements of ORDA.

“That’s part of why we’re having this conversation with the autoclave and centrifuge running,” Katie said, her tone and expression grim. “If I go to my superiors with what I have now, we’ll wind up with vivisected Licinians. And while I’m not saying that _won’t_ happen eventually, at this point, I’d like to avoid morally reprehensible actions and interplanetary incidents, especially while we have so many unanswered questions.”

“O—ka—ay,” Jensen said stretching out each syllable. He was only half listening because something was tickling at the back of his mind. Something about this wasn’t right. Something—itched. Dawning recognition, a piece of a bigger puzzle, it was just out of reach. “Wait,” he held up his hand in the near-universal gesture for “stop.” He sat ramrod straight leaning closer to the screens, trying to make the data before him make more sense. “How was it that you were able to find the _translatoneuroloquoramine beta_ ,” he stumbled over the words,” in the Licinians if you don’t know their biology?”

Katie bit her lip and leaned forward, resting her lab coat–clad elbows on the lab bench’s surface. “Jensen, it’s not a neurotransmitter that _does_ the same thing or acts in the same way as the _translatoneuroloquoromine beta_ all Markers have—it’s the exact same substance. Chemically identical.”

Before Jensen could ask another question, Katie held up her pointer finger and gained his silence.

“And it’s not just the ‘beta.’” She reached across the second laptop and pressed the down arrow a few times. “The Licinians have almost all the neurotransmitters and pheromones that are unique to Markers, and we’ve identified a few more substances that are really chemically close that probably do the same thing. It’s not _just_ the _T. beta_ that you share—that’s just the key that helped us, well mostly _me_ really, start to unlock the puzzle.” Katie’s eyes were bright with impassioned excitement, but haunted, and she was looking at Jensen imploringly like she desperately wanted him to put the pieces together for himself so she wouldn’t have to say it out loud.

Whatever _it_ was.

Only, deep down, Jensen _knew_ , and like it or not, there was no way to escape the conclusion. “So all Markers share common biochemistry with the Licinian infiltrators?” he asked rhetorically. “So, we could probably use their equipment or _are_ using their equipment and equipment reverse engineered from it.” He let the thought roll around in his brain collecting inferences, sublimating them, and identifying the most pressing question. “Do we—” he grabbed the edge of one belt loop and worried the fabric. “Do we share any common genetic elements?”

“No,” Katie said hurriedly, staring intently at Jensen as if to gauge his reaction. “But that isn’t exactly unexpected. Although our physiologies are somewhat similar—we’re both bipedal, homoeothermic, carbon-based, use iron as an oxygen carrier in our blood, can breathe a nitrogen–oxygen atmosphere and have a set of organs that seem to function fairly similarly. But that’s about it… Their lung capacity, for example is at least five times a humans’, even though the lungs themselves are only slightly larger in mass and volume. They’re full of a variety of substances and structures that suggest the Licinians can survive in non-oxygenated environments. They can use sulfur, cyanide, and probably other substances for respiration—they can breathe atmospheres that are toxic to humans, even Markers,” she explained.

Jensen shuddered and filed the knowledge away for future reference. Realization blossomed in his stomach, shifting quickly into a sickening burn. He almost asked if Katie thought they could breathe methane, CO2, or any other volcanic or greenhouse gasses, but he held off. He wasn’t sure he knew enough to reach that conclusion yet. Instead, he said, “So, all Markers make the same chemicals as the Licinians, all chemicals that allow us to use WMDs and other technologies we’ve always suspected were alien in origin,” he paused. “And you guys are pretty sure the unique genes Markers have are genetically engineered because we know at least some of us get them from nanolumes, which are definitely not natural. So either we were genetically engineered by the same… engineer as the Licinians... or _they_ engineered us?” he concluded. “Why would they want to kill us if they made us? Hell, that still doesn’t tell us what they want. Or why they’re here, or why they’re attacking us when that’s not their MO.”

“Well, it’s possible a third party developed the nanolumes without the Licinians consent. Someone may have stolen their tech and copied what they needed to make themselves compatible with the tech, then dropped it here…” Katie suggested with a shrug.

“Who, someone we’ve never heard of? And this stuff just happened to be compatible with humans to specifically be able to modify human DNA to interface with Licinian technology, because what are the odds of some other species engineering something for their own use that just happens to work for us? Or, what, are we supposed to think some third party gifted the tech and the ability to use it to us? It doesn’t make any sense. Because in my admittedly limited experience, we only know, what, three other species that use personal wormholes as methods of travel. The p-whatzits—”

“Phvanzi, is as close as we can get to their name,” Katie supplied.

“Right, but they’ve only had WMDs for the last 50 of our years. They developed them _after_ they met us. Before that they were doing something really different, right?” He recalled something about micro-wormhole drives on ships that opened a series of short wormholes that a spaceship could slip from one to the next, dropping in and out of regular space as it traveled. It had sounded to Jensen like some kind of hybrid of technologies from Stargate—the wormhole drive Atlantis had used to get to Earth and the zigzagging hyperspace jumps of the Wraith. He’d laughed at the similarity until it made him think too much of the Wraith, which had made him contemplate whether a species like them could exist somewhere out there in the black—at the time he’d had to sprint to the nearest head before he lost his lunch all over Lt. Col. Kane’s boots. He shuddered, at the recollection, flinching away from that train of thought, forcing himself back to the task at hand. “The Alpha Bravo one fivers, they travel by personal wormhole, but their biochemistry is so different from either ours or the Licinians, I can’t really envision them secretly engineering something for us hundreds or thousands of years ago,” Jensen reasoned, gesticulating emphatically.

Katie raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Yeah, they have a great recorded history and are the source of most of our info on the Licinians. The Licinians’ first contact with the AB15ers was about 300 years ago, and they were so cagey the AB15ers didn’t even know their tech operated on similar principles for about 20 years, unless that’s all lies and the AB15ers reputation as intergalactic librarians and historians is undeserved. Besides, we’re pretty sure Markers have been in the human population and WMDs and other artifacts have been present on Earth for a lot longer than 300 years. So, the AB15ers are a very unlikely suspect.” Katie sighed. “I’ve thought about this. The Igth couldn’t have done it either. They can’t breathe our atmosphere, so we’re of little interest to them. They would have had trouble visiting us or the Licinian homeworld, and I can’t see them having any _reason_ to do it. From what I know, they’re not the type to engage in experimentation on other species.”

Jensen nodded, thoughts of Loki—the Stargate character, not the mythological Norse god—drifting through his head. “Then again, all it takes is one bad apple, right? He shrugged.

Katie smiled at that. “For a while, I thought it might be the Fropali, the galactic nonaggression treaty police. We don’t know much about them, and no human has had a face-to-face meeting with a representative of their government since before ORDA’s founding. Most of what we do know about the Fropali is second or third hand. Maybe the Fropali tried to help us out? Or maybe the Licinians don’t even care how or why or who gave us our technology and perceive this as treaty violation and think they have the right to eradicate us—or Markers, maybe any people using their tech?

“But if that was true, they wouldn’t be sneaking around behind the Fropali’s backs, and they’d be targeting…” Jensen shuddered, “Well, people like me, more or less, just Markers, they’d have no reason to come after ordinary humans.” He gave into the need to rest his elbows on _something_ and placed them on his knee, lowering his chin to his hands. “But they’re not.” Jensen wasn’t sure what made him the most uneasy, that he was already thinking of himself as different, something _other_ , not a normal human, maybe not even human at all—there was a lot of baggage there after all, it hit very close to the scars he still carried from his experience coming out wrangling his own internalized homophobia. Or was it that he knew Katie _wasn’t_ a Marker, that somehow she was different from him, and vulnerable in a way he couldn’t accept. If the Licinians were upset about their tech being stolen or duplicated, they should be attacking Markers, not humans, but they weren’t and the injustice was just one more wrong Jensen seemed powerless to right.

Katie met his eye and glanced away, like she didn’t want to see the pain and guilt and confusion there. She focused on the laptop closer to her instead. “No, they’re sneaking around, popping up in weird places, and targeting non-Markers.” She shuddered. “Ah,” her mood and expression did a sudden 180, “But that’s the good thing—that’s what you helped me solve!” she exclaimed.

Jensen, feeling a bit of emotional whiplash, only managed a confused, “huh.”

“The _translatoneuroloquoramine beta_ and you,” she said smiling. “We didn’t know it was possible to open stable _intra_ planetary wormholes, at least not with any of our tech. And we actually _couldn’t_ do it with the stuff we made ourselves. See,” she pointed at the first laptop, “see how low most Markers’ ‘beta levels are? See this here?” she pointed to another line on the screen.

Jensen squinted and leaned closer, “T. alpha?” he asked, unsure of how to interpret the much large bar on the graph she had pointed out.

She nodded eagerly. “We called them alpha and beta because we thought they did the same thing. Most people have low ‘beta levels and high ‘alpha levels, so we had assumed _T. alpha_ was the primary actor and the _T. beta_ was just there to help.”

Jensen made an “O” with his mouth as realization finally hit home. “So the researchers, they built our WMDs to respond to _T. alpha_ and not ‘beta?”

“Well, yes, but more like they figured out how the _T. alpha_ interacted with the alien-made WMDs and how to duplicate that interaction in our own tech, and since they couldn’t discern a purpose for the _T. beta_ , they opted not to spend tens of millions or more on research to add in something that wouldn’t add any functionality.” Katie explained, shooting Jensen a shy grin. “But then you came along.”

“And I opened an intra-planetary wormhole,” Jensen supplied.

“Yes, and as soon as we got you through testing, we noted your _T. beta_ levels were off the charts. We put two and two together because you were using an alien WMD. We realized the neurotransmitter we thought of as a mostly unnecessary backup really had a distinct and independent purpose that wasn’t programmed into our tech .Well we guessed—it wasn’t really until you started working with others, training them on how to do it—that we saw this—” Katie punched in a few commands on the laptop closer to Jensen.

He watched in surprises as a new set of data all showing individuals with elevated _T. beta_ levels appeared. “Lt. Col. Collins” and “Lt. Col. Kane” were at the top of the list.

“As you can see, as soon as they started training, their _T. beta_ levels shot up. Given enough time, we can probably work that into our own version of the WMDs, and make intraplanetary wormholes possible for everyone,” Katie added with a smirk of geeky glee.

“Do you know why I—why my—” Jensen faultered.

Katie was already shaking her head. “Not for sure, no. It could be you’ve always had elevated levels—a genetic fluke or maybe a result of your natural talent—cause and effect are pretty iffy here. We already know you’re the strongest Marker we’ve come across. There are probably environmental factors too. Your opening a wormhole could have been a part of a natural panic response—fight or flight. Instead of just your adrenaline skyrocketing, maybe your _T. beta_ levels shot up too. There was an alien-crafted WMD nearby, and your desire to get out of that situation, escape the threat might have been enough to open the wormhole.” Katie frowned. “Without a pre-incident scan, we’ll probably never know.”

Jensen nodded, taking it all in. After a few moments he looked up at Katie and realized she was still holding something back. “So, you understand why I could open that wormhole,” he waived his hands side to side, “well, more or less. And you think the Licinians are doing the same thing and that’s why we’re not tracking them.”

“Our current sensor systems will spot any wormhole they use to get here, but unless we can intercept them immediately, they can go anywhere and we’re not equipped to track them,” Katie confirmed.

“Got it!” Jensen nodded, sliding back onto the stool and crossing his arms over his chest. “And you think the genetic mutations of Markers might be related to these guys because we produce the same special neurotransmitters.”

“I think you use the same WMDs too, and I think that might be what set them off when Col. Morgan was killed,” Katie answered soberly.

“Can’t you just… compare?” Jensen asked. “I mean we’ve recovered stuff from the Licinians we’ve found here on Earth, I mean, we’ve got blood samples and autopsies, didn’t any of their belongings survive? Can’t you just take one of those and one of the alien-made WMDs we use and compare?” It seemed pretty simple to him, but then again, he was still pretty new at this, and he might be missing something. Maybe even the _age_ of their alien-made WMDs made it a problem. Maybe technology would have changed so much that it would be difficult to spot similarities or see if they were anything more than just coincidental.

Then again, the WMDs seemed near-indestructible. The one currently strapped to his belt had spent at least 5,000 years in or on a glacier and it looked brand new. Worked perfectly too, at least as far as he could tell.

Katie still hadn’t answered though, and her eyes drifted towards the ceiling again, towards the spot the surveillance was hiding.

He wasn’t sure what the problem was, after all the autoclave was still humming and the centrifuge was still whirring. He couldn’t detect any change or drop in the sound that would make their conversation suddenly unsafe. But there was definitely something wrong, because he’d seen that same expression on Misha when he wanted to speak, but was too afraid of being overheard to risk it. “Katie, what?”

“I—I’ve tried. I requested lab time with the hardware and artifacts we recovered. Before I’d even discovered any of this,” she encompassed both laptops with a sweeping gesture. “I just wanted to check it out, run a simple inventory so I would have technological specifications to compare to my autopsy results… First they were tied up in quarantine, then the paperwork was missing, then the artifacts themselves were missing. The last time I asked,” she sighed and shook her head. “One of the Generals has restricted access.” The way she said it he could hear the capital “G” in the word. “I don’t know which one or if it’s a Council decision, but they’re not letting me get near anything they’ve recovered.”

“Are they letting anyone?” Jensen asked uncertainly.

“I don’t know.” Katie rubbed at her temples as if staving off a headache. “I’m not even sure where to start looking or asking on that one. It’s… the whole thing is full of landmines. Without knowing who ordered the restriction or why, I can’t exactly start poking around without potentially making the situation much, much worse. It could mean one of the Generals is afraid someone will steal or destroy the evidence; they may suspect a mole… It could be a typical arrogant thing where they’re not letting non-Markers near the stuff. Maybe it’s crawling in nanolumes and they’re not letting anyone touch it until the nanolumes are recovered. Or…”

“Maybe one of the Generals is working for the Licinians… maybe they know something they’re trying to keep hidden…” Jensen was surprised at the certainty he felt as he spoke.

“Yeah,” Katie agreed. “Somehow, knowing this place and our luck lately, my bet’s on that option.”

The room seemed to chill. Jensen could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing one by one as a shiver over took him, crawling up his spine as his body shuddered. “There’s gotta be something…” It was his turn to rub at his forehead in frustration. “We can’t track them…” Jensen let his voice trail off.

“What is it?” Katie asked, her expression stuck somewhere between anticipation and dread.

“We can’t track them—yet, but we can track wormholes. We know how to detect the displacement when they open, we know how to find wormhole origin points, we know how to trace incoming and outgoing destinations if we find a wormhole soon enough… So what’s keeping us from tracking these?” he asked.

Katie blinked, “Well, the signatures are different—both opening and closing. It’s similar enough that if you’re _right_ there, you can probably pick up some of the distortion, but it doesn’t show up on any of our sensors or tracking programs, probably because space folds differently when you’re opening a wormhole that burrows through a much more localized area of spacetime, and well… the different neurotransmitters mean a different signal frequency.”

Jensen grinned, “So a big part of what we pick up is what, the signal between neurotransmitters and the WMD and the accompanying displacement?”

“Yeah, that’s more or less how it works,” Katie said, tipping her head. “You know I’m not a physicist, right?”

“Yeah, but you know more about the neurotransmitters than anyone, and I’m betting you know enough about the frequencies and displacement we use to track wormholes to figure out what signals to look for. Come on,” he said pushing back his stool a little too eagerly, remembering at the last moment they were still on camera. “Do you know someplace we can work for a little while around here that doesn’t have cameras?”

Katie glanced over at the autoclave, the centrifuge, and up at the recording devices in the ceiling. “Wait 10 minutes? So it doesn’t look so suspicious. If you can pull the blue case from the cabinet next to the autoclave and bring it back here… I think I know a place.”

Which was how 10 minutes later, they were holed up in a dingy, poorly lit men’s bathroom near the entrance to the medical wing. The door was locked and a “CAUTION: Wet Floor” sign was parked outside it, guaranteeing them at least a little privacy. Jensen knew the bathroom was almost never used, but he was worried about them disappearing from cameras, but Katie pointed out even with ORDA’s security and paranoia, the security techs and algorithms couldn’t track every inch of the building constantly. Besides, worst case scenario, some tech would think they were having an affair.

It turned out the blue case Katie had asked him to grab contained some sort of monitoring device. It was similar to the tablet and sensor combos Katie and other doctors used, but apparently calibrated to pick up certain electrical frequencies and quantum displacement waves. She knew how to read the results, and should be able to figure out what characteristics intraplanetary wormholes displayed when activated.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Katie asked, nervously from her perch on one of the sinks as Jensen stood with his back to one wall, WMD in hand.

There was a long, but somewhat narrow, open space at the front of the bathroom that rant from the cluster of urinals at one end past three stalls to the other. Jensen assessed the distance, and pressed his thumb to the tiny green dot on his WMD that was actually the button that changed modes. Now instead of seeking out the most convenient target on a series of either extraplanetary celestial bodies or on-planet locations, it was ready to take direct input from Jensen. Concentrating, his let his fingers ghost over the other green dots, “dialing in” the location, as the ORDA veterans called it. There were no _dials_ he was just supplying coordinates to the device for the exit aperture of his wormhole. He concentrated extra hard, focusing on the spot he wanted to emerge. Twenty-five feet was a little closer than he’d ever tried, and he’d _never_ tried dialing in for an intraplanetary wormhole, but if his understanding and Katie’s research were correct, it should work just fine.

“Jensen?” Katie asked again, nervously.

“Just a second—there,” he said as he felt the WMD confirm the location. He wasn’t getting any strange feedback from the location of the soon-to-be exit aperture, but he was filled with a sense of accomplishment, that sent a surge of excitement through him. “I should be good to go,” he added with a satisfied nod to Katie.

She looked skeptical, but had her sensor equipment ready. “Okay, I’m ready whenever you are. I’m going to collect data on entry apertures first, then exits.” She sighed and leveled a sheepish look at Jensen. “I’ll need multiple data points, so that means you’re probably going to have to do this a lot, sorry.”

“No problem. I need the practice anyway,” Jensen said jovially, the thrill and growing thrum of the connection keeping him in a good mood. “Okay, here goes,” he confirmed, and let his thumb press on the hidden button that opened the wormhole. The aperture opened in front of him, and he stepped in—stepping out in the same moment on the other end of the bathroom, the aperture closing behind him with a pop of displaced air. “How was that?” he asked, turning around and looking at Katie.

Her hair was actually windblown from the displacement, and she looked a little dumbstruck. “You—there—” she cleared her throat. “I could see both ends of the wormhole at the same time. It was like you literally stepped _through_ all that intervening space!”

“Did you get the reading?” he asked.

Kaite blushed, peeking down at her tablet. “Uh, yeah. Right here, look at that.” She turned back to Jensen scooting back on the sink, and bracing herself against the wall behind her. “Okay, now I need you to do that at least five times for entries and five times for exits. You up for that?”

Jensen winked, “Hell yeah!” He was already dialing in the wormhole for the return trip.

They continued like that back and forth for an hour, at which point Jensen was still giddy, but completely exhausted, and Katie was happy with the data she had, but didn’t want to push their absence any longer lest it get suspicious.

“You think you can track intraplanetary wormholes with that?” Jensen asked, right before the exited, his hand poised over the lock.

“This isn’t my area of expertise, so it’s going to take me a little while, but give me a day or two, and I should have it, yeah,” Katie said, a relieved smile breaking over her face. “This is… Jensen this is the first good news we’ve had in almost a year! I—I can’t believe someone didn’t think of it sooner. I mean, you’ve been around here for a while now…” The realization hit them at the same time.

“Katie, I know—look I know this is important. It’s going to help us track the Licinians, maybe save lives, but you gotta keep it under wraps right now. Tell _no one_. Like you said, someone must have figured it out already, and if we haven’t heard of it, that suggests—”

“Someone’s either working with the Licinians or is otherwise withholding vital information from ORDA personnel.” She frowned, clutching the blue case tighter to her hip. “What do you want me to do… should I destroy—”

“No!” Jensen exclaimed, placing a hand on the case defensively. “I’m just saying don’t tell anyone. Keep this a secret. Reveal it or use it when we absolutely need it, and not a moment sooner. Play with it or something in the meantime and see what you can see.”

“Jensen, did you just tell me to spy on our own troops?” Katie asked, amused.

“I didn’t—” Jensen was a little shocked at how quickly he was slipping into the whole back-stabbing, double-crossing ORDA mindset.

“Don’t worry about it. Welcome to the team,” Katie said with an affectionate pat to his arm.

~~~

 **Chapter 7:**  
The excitement Jensen had felt at gaining such control and understanding over his own skills and the WMD was short-lived. The next day Misha, Katie and the rest of their team went offworld on some sort of two-week super hush-hush meeting, leaving Jensen alone again with his thoughts. He was busy, working on advanced linguistics training with Mirakimi, doing target practice and obstacle courses at ORDA’s underground training facility, and of course going on missions. But it wasn’t enough. He had too much down time, too much time alone to obsess over his thoughts.

Jensen, and the rest of Kane’s team went on what felt like an endless stream of survey missions—they were looking for three specific compounds and bushwhacking through a lot of alien jungles, forests, and one decidedly unsettling “meadow” filled with sharp blue crystals of various hues and sizes. No one would tell them—or at least tell _Jensen_ —what the compounds were for, and Kane was being extra cranky. Jensen figured Kane was still upset about Jensen being read into the current situation with the war. It was tedious, stressful, and each night, Jensen went home to his and Misha’s bed, alone. He kept thinking about the engineered genes that made him a Marker, the abilities they gave him, and the other… side effects they seemed to have. Despite Misha’s decision to finally open up about the Licinians and the war, and Colonel Morgan’s death, their relationship was still strained. It wasn’t even a lack of sex—because they had managed to find the time in between missions, if a lot less frequently than they used to. It was the realization that if Jensen’s genes were strong enough to let him open wormholes in a bathroom and skip across stretches of space, and Markers gave off pheromones that attracted other Markers as part of an elaborate evolutionary imperative, then what did that say about him, and Misha?

After the fourth consecutive survey mission, Jensen found himself standing on their balcony, when Misha finally arrived home. Jensen was still standing there, staring out over the city, when Misha found him.

“You’re still mad.”

Jensen looked up from where he was leaning against the balcony railing, looking out over the traffic whizzing by on Eastlake below. White noise mixing with the roar of traffic on I-5 to the west and creating a soundtrack. A false sense of calm and normalcy pasting over the twisted wreckage of confusion Jensen’s life had become. “I’m not mad,” Jensen murmured. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m just thinking.”

Misha was leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed over his chest. He’d changed into pyjama pants and a t-shirt, but he didn’t look any more relaxed.

“More like disappointed,” Jensen muttered as he glanced back out over the traffic.

“Disappointed?” Misha asked, sounding stung. Jensen hadn’t really meant for Misha to hear that, but he was finding he didn’t really care. Misha’s pants rustled, and Jensen knew he was pushing himself off the door, closing the distance between them.

Jensen gripped the balcony railing until his knuckles turned white. “I’m really not in the mood for talking right now,” he said. “I just want to be alone.” He glanced back again.

Misha’s right eyebrow was cocked, and if anything Jensen would say _he_ looked pissed. Maybe he was. But that wasn’t Jensen’s fault. Jensen was a human being and entitled to have human reactions. If Misha was—displeased—with how Jensen handled himself, well Misha was just going to have to be disappointed. Jensen couldn’t not react, he couldn’t not _feel_ , and right now his world had been altered from underneath him one too many times. Nothing he thought he had was real, and he didn’t really care if some stupid Western blot said he was special and different. If it gave a reason for _why_ everything was crumbling beneath his feet. Understanding didn’t make his sense of loss any less acute.

“And you say you’re not mad,” Misha said, clearly trying for sarcastic, but falling short.

“I’m not,” Jensen affirmed.

“Damn it, Jensen,” Misha sighed in frustration, as he reached the railing, his palms slamming down on it with enough force to make the metal rattle under Jensen’s fingers.

Jensen didn’t look over, didn’t tear his eyes from the random tower on Queen Anne he’d chosen as his focal point. Misha had left over a foot of space between them, but Jensen didn’t want Misha this close, at least not yet, not now. Not when every instinct told him to reach out, in spite of knowing it was all—

“I thought you were listening,” Misha started again. “I thought you understood. I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t want to keep any of this from you. But knowing the cost, I would have done anything to keep you from being trapped in this with me. I never wanted—I—I just wanted you to be _you_ the same Jensen I’ve always known. Wanted you to have your life—”

“Then why didn’t you?” Jensen spat out, the words sounding bitter to his own ears. He turned his head towards Misha. “Why didn’t you just leave me alone? Let me be. Why did you drag me into this?”

He met Misha’s gaze, and Misha’s eyes went wide with shock or hurt.

Jensen didn’t care. Misha needed to understand.

“Drag you into this?” Misha asked, sounding confused. “I didn’t dr—”

“Yes you did. You talked to me. You dated me. You married me. And all the while you knew. You knew what you did. You knew that once you were in, there was no way out. You knew there was always a risk. But you wanted me anyway.” Jensen tore his eyes away and found the same tower again. The blinking lights at its top were familiar, comforting. They seemed to flicker at a slow enough pace he could loose himself in the rhythm. He released his death grip on the railing and leaned forward on his elbows. “If you really cared about me? Wanted to keep me out of this world? You never would have asked me out for dinner.” Jensen shook his head, frustration and bitter grief crowding in. “But the sad thing is, I know why you did.”

“Sad— What are you talking about?” Misha sounded genuinely confused.

“See, I’ve been listening. I did what you asked. And I’m not mad. Not mad at you anymore. I am fucking pissed.” He slammed his hands against the railing. “And frustrated!” he screamed, his voice carrying over the traffic. “But I’m not mad. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Jensen, what the hell?”

Misha’s fingers started to close around Jensen’s bicep. The touch was hesitant, tentative, gentle, but Jensen couldn’t keep from tearing himself away, and Misha’s fingers left little flares of pain in their wake. There would be bruises later. “Don’t fucking touch me,” Jensen spat. Then, feeling a pang of guilt for the anger he heard in his own voice, he glanced at Misha. “Just… I can’ take it right now. Not… no.”

Misha’s eyes were pinched and wet and he looked utterly betrayed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jensen murmured, reaching out with his hand only to stop short, his fingers hanging in the air, arm still outstretched. He was too afraid Misha would flinch, and yeah, he’d just done that to Misha, and he was a coward. But if he made this any harder, he’d never get the words out. He lowered his hand and dropped his eyes so he was staring at Misha’s chest. “See, I was paying attention. I listened like you asked. And I heard what they said. Markers, no matter how strong or complex their genetic profile as a marker is, all of us have genes that enable us to seek out the alien technology, the nanolumes, and… other Markers. Even if we’re not aware of it consciously, we all give off pheromones that attract each other. The stronger the marker, the more we can detect and the more pheromones we give off.”

Jensen glanced up. Misha still looked lost, but he was listening, and really that was all Jensen could ask for.

“When we first met in college, we were friends. We were friends the entire time I was an undergrad. We liked each other, but…” he blinked, pushed aside the other feelings that had flitted around the edges of his awareness at the time, “nothing more ever happened between us. Then I went off to law school, you did your post doc, and… you got dosed with nanolumes.” Jensen watched Misha’s face carefully for his reaction, but instead of dawning realization or shock and regret or even plain, simple anger, all he saw was more confusion. “The next time we met, we went from being friends to a whole lot more.”

Misha still didn’t react.

“Misha, as far as we know, we were both born Markers, but your profile was relatively weak until you were exposed to nanolumes. The first time we saw each other after that we were all over each other like horny rabbits. Don’t you see? It’s all just biological imperative. We’re just acting out what our stupid engineered genes and pheromones are telling us to do.” The weight of his words sat like a rock in Jensen’s gut. He’d thought saying it out loud would make it easier. Misha would respond. They’d talk or maybe fight, and something would _happen_ so they could start to live their lives again. Get out of this stupid holding pattern he’d felt trapped in ever since his first ORDA briefing.

“What are you saying?” Misha’s tone was somewhere between exasperated and annoyed, and Jensen didn’t have a clue what that meant. Didn’t Misha feel… betrayed?

“We used to _like_ each other. Then we fell in love only after we had comparable strengths as markers. It’s our genetic imperative pulling us together. It’s not real!” Jensen slammed his right hand on the railing again. “I’m not saying you consciously knew what I am, but at least since the accident... you’re too smart not to figure it out, yet you keep telling me that everything’s okay, that you love me, that nothing’s gonna change. How can it not?”

Misha was silent.

Jensen slammed his hand on the railing again, “Damn it!”

All of a sudden, Misha was there, pressed against Jensen’s side, his arms wrapping around him. “For a smart guy, you sure can be stupid sometimes.”

It was Jensen’s turn to look up in confusion.

“I had the biggest crush on you when we first met. I was crazy about you; that’s why I was so eager to befriend you, help you with homework, talk about anything.” Misha tightened his arms around Jensen and squeezed.

It felt too _comforting_ for Jensen to flinch or pull away.

“But you were 18 and still figuring out who you were, on shaky ground with your parents, gifted with the freedom to be yourself for the first time in your life. I was 22, in a doctoral program, and I’d figured myself out by the time I was 12 and never had to hide.” Misha’s left hand closed over Jensen’s, entwining their fingers. “It didn’t seem fair. Four years is nothing in the grand scheme of things, but between us, then? It seemed insurmountable. I cared too much about you to try to put you in a position—a relationship—you weren’t ready for, and I was too selfish to even try. I didn’t want to face rejection, and I knew if I tried for something casual, I’d never be satisfied. I’d want more.”

“I never got the idea you were remotely interested,” Jensen blurted. It was true; Misha had flirted with a lot of people (and if his reputation was anything to go by, slept with a lot of them too), but never Jensen.

“Well, that had a lot to do with me being convinced my degree and my research was more important than everything else. “Long-term just didn’t fit into my plans...” His voice trailed off.

Jensen glanced over to see Misha shrug. “So, what changed?”

“ORDA,” Misha answered.

“See,” Jensen snorted bordering on hysteria. “It _was_ the stupid gene—”

“No, not how you think,” Misha cut him off.

Jensen did a double-take. That voice was cold, haunted, commanding. The same tone he’d heard briefly in ORDA’s headquarters, but never before. It was commanding, and Jensen found his spine shooting straighter.

“Do you remember when I called you?”

It took Jensen several seconds of blankly staring to get it. There were so many times... but Misha could only mean one. “It was a little over a year after I left for San Francisco.” Jensen smiled. “I was in the middle of _not_ participating in OCI, and wondering if I was crazy for even trying to make a career in public interest law. All while being grateful I wasn’t any of my classmates who were all running around like black-suited zombies, missing class to sell their souls to the highest bidder. And I was lonely, and miserable, and depressed, even though I really liked school, and then out of the blue, you called, and it was a lifeline, a reminder. You were a connection to the outside world, and I remembered why I was there.” Jensen looked down at his hands, stroking his thumb over Misha’s. He didn’t want that to be fake, to be all a byproduct of alien genetic engineering.

“I lied before about how I got hurt.” The hollowness was back in Misha’s voice, layered on top of the steely command tone.

“What?” Jensen’s thumb stopped moving.

“I really did break my ribs and my arm on the expedition where I found the nanolumes and got sucked into ORDA. But that wasn’t the only time, and that’s not what the scars are from.”

Jensen looked up and back, twisting his neck to look Misha in the eye. Something was just _wrong_ ; he sounded scared.

“I was 27, commissioned as a provisional Captain. I’d finished my training sessions and was going off-world with a team.”

“Colonel Morgan’s team?” Jensen asked.

“No, not Colonel Morgan’s team. And actually, he was a major then.” Misha smiled wistfully for a moment, but a shadow seemed to fall over his eyes and his smile faltered. “I was assigned as a science officer for Colonel Ferris’s team. There were eight of us, and we were assigned to do an environmental survey on P’thyt, one of the outlying planets controlled by the TYngai. A diplomatic team, six people, was going at the same time—they weren’t accompanying us, they were there for treaty negotiations. Working on getting us a designated refuge on P’thyt.”

Misha finally looked down and met Jensen’s eyes. He smiled, but it was brittle. _Ironic_ , Jensen realized. “Something went wrong?”

“Dealing with the TYngai is like trying to escape the blast radius of a bomb while navigating a mine field and juggling live grenades.” He sounded almost amused. “It’s not just humans that think that. The Entath have a very similar saying and the Igth say something so... dirty, it’s painful to translate.” He shook his head, wrapping his right arm around Jensen and pulling him to his chest. “They’re not bad or evil. They’re just really, really different from a lot of sentient life forms. Maybe part of the problem is that they feel like the odd men out, but I’m pretty sure that’s anthropomorphizing them. They just think differently. Maybe being ‘inorganic’ affects their values. Maybe they just don’t understand other sentients as being equals or like them or something to protect. Maybe they don’t understand what kills us. Maybe they don’t understand death. Maybe they’re just really scared because the rest of us are all really different.”

Jensen wasn’t sure what the TYngai were like. The name wasn’t ringing a bell.

The confusion must have shown, because Misha explained, “They’re silicon-based, but more like floating blobs than a Horta. We’ve known them for over 50 years, but still know next to nothing about how they work. Some of the training guys call them ‘slicks’?”

“Oh.” Now that was a term Jensen had heard. “There’s some kind of protocols?”

“You could say that. There are layers upon layers of protocol mixed with ritual. Most of that is because our communications just don’t translate very well. We don’t understand them, they don’t understand us. And the same is true for everyone we know. So we put our heads together, so to speak, us and everyone else that deals with them, and we pool our knowledge. That means every communication gets translated into a dozen different languages and communications systems in addition to the rituals. But sometimes we get little things wrong or we misunderstand them, and it can get ugly and lethal very quickly.”

“Why do we deal with them then?” Jensen asked, his forehead scrunching up in confusion.

“Because they’re our neighbors. We can’t just ignore them because we don’t understand them. Their territories are close enough to Earth and a lot of our allies—both by wormhole or ship—that chances are we’re going to bump into them. And... and they control at least four star systems with dozens of planets and moons that are habitable by a wide variety of sentient species. They don’t mind sharing their space as long as you work out an agreement first and stay out of their way.”

“And that’s what the diplomatic team was doing?” Jensen asked.

“Yeah.”

“But something went wrong.” It had to have, or why would Misha be telling the story.

“The Entath figured out after the fact that something got mistranslated or mis-communicated between the TYngai themselves, so about halfway through the diplomatic team’s negotiations, the TYngai got the impression Col. Ferris’s team was working _with_ them. Surveying the planet to set up a base regardless of the negotiations. We were actually there pursuant to a treaty we’d signed ten years before that gave us permission to do periodic surveys to catalogue environmental conditions, species, geology—anything that might form the basis for trade or further negotiations.”

“What would they trade for?” Jensen wondered aloud.

“They’re particularly fond of used computer components, the higher the silicon content the better. Even if we can’t recycle them, they seem to be able to use them,” Misha answered.

“Ah.”

“We were surveying P’thyt with the primary purpose of determining its suitability for a base or evacuation point, but we had no intention of setting up a garrison without their express permission, and we needed the survey anyway to see what other trade or treaty grounds we might have.

“You sure about that?” Jensen was surprised to hear Misha accepting anything ORDA did at face value—he was usually so skeptical of governmental intentions—or at least that’s what Jensen had thought.

“Trust me, no one’s stupid enough to try to pull one over on the TYngai.” Misha shook his head and sighed. “The diplomatic team died in seconds. When the TYngai believe an agreement has been violated they terminate the threat instantly.” Misha paused again, the silence hanging between them.

Jensen began to wonder if Misha would actually continue. He was pretty sure whatever Misha was about to say, he had never told anyone before.

“One second I was rattling off pH readings to Capt. Tenny, the next she had two TYngai projectile blades sticking out of her chest and had blood dripping down her chin. We had no warning, not even a crackle of static on our radios. Maj. Smith tackled me to the ground. I landed on the box of core samples and re-fractured my arm and ribs. Smith took a blade to the shoulder... he nearly bled out, but... it would have gone through my throat.

“It’s all stop motion after that, flashes. Smith managed to haul me to my feet. We couldn’t save Tenny, and neither of us had the strength to take her with us. We were just running. Smith shouted something about finding the Colonel and I took off. Sasaki and Neilsen got hit. There was blood everywhere. I made it to the tree line and rounded a bend in the stream we were sampling in time to see Torrens go down, he didn’t have time to fire. Lee got a few shots off, but they didn’t do much except make the TYngai angrier. She took a blade to her leg trying to reload. The Colonel had her gun raised and was trying to negotiate—she was quoting treaty clauses and promising immediate removal from the planet, but when she got the WMD out to show them, one of them shot a blade right through. Cut the WMD clean in half and impaled her hand. It was like a switch was flipped. You could see it in her eyes, after that it wasn’t about survival, she was convinced she was going to die, ‘cause there was no way she could use that to get off the planet.

“She raised her weapon, saw me and Smith out of the corner of her eye and ordered us to take Lee and go. Smith managed to stagger over to Lee and get her kinda mobile. One of the TYngai—you could tell they were gonna shoot. The Colonel was reloading, she didn’t have a chance. I had my hand closed around the WMD ready to open a default, and I jumped...” Misha’s body stiffened as he said it, he rocked, jerked as if hit, his back ramrod straight.

Jensen couldn’t suppress the shudder that shook him from head to toe. His stomach flipped, and he almost wished Misha wouldn’t continue. But he had to… Because knowing but not saying anything would be worse than hearing. There was no way to erase the understanding, and Jensen wouldn’t want to if he could. Especially not if Misha was reliving all of this to explain, to _prove_ the connection between them was more than a chemical manipulation.

“I took two blades to the chest. One punctured my lung. The other managed to miss all the arteries and organs but did a lot of muscle damage. I went down, but it worked. I got the aperture open _between_ us and the TYngai patrol. Colonel Ferris had enough cover to haul us out of there, swearing at me all the way, of course, but she got us out.”

Misha sighed, both arms wrapping tight around Jensen, pulling him flush against his chest.

Jensen knew it was his imagination, but he could almost _feel_ the scars through Misha’s shirt. Scars he’d seen and touched and loved and joked about for years—teasing Misha for his clumsiness. More recently he’d thought he knew—for real—the truth, only to find out. .. Had Misha been protecting him?

“Default took us to LM440. Things got bad fast. It’s this moon no one wants ‘cause it’s not really habitable for anyone. Low oxygen, low pressure, and the temperature where we popped out was maybe 5 C. I don’t remember much for about three weeks after that beyond feeling like I was drowning. I found out Ferris actually helped me to get us out of there. We went to M’Nell. It’s a Phvanzi planet where we have a small base and an embassy. It’s got a hospital equipped to treat humans.”

“I’ve actually been there,” Jensen murmured.

‘Ts why I didn’t lose more lung function and got a lot of muscle use back. Still, Lee lost her leg and Smith was touch and go for days. The Colonel, she just turned right back around and went back to P’thyt with a sanzi mediator and an Entath linguist who just happened to be on M’Nell at the right time. She got the misunderstanding resolved, rescued our data and supplies, retrieved the bodies of all our people, and completed negotiations for a base all without sleeping, eating, or stopping long enough to clean my blood off her uniform. They promoted her to Brigadier General the next day.

“Next thing I know I’m in a Phvanzi hospital being told I can’t transfer to a rehab hospital or anywhere on Earth until my lung function improves another 18%. There’re medals and awards with my name on them lined up around my bedside, but I’ll probably never get to acknowledge them in public. I’m lonely, scared, in pain, and I realize I’ve got no one to talk to. I can’t tell anyone what happened. I want out, but there is no out—no medical discharge, no way to say ‘sorry, not interested, see ya later,’ no retirement after putting in my 20. You don’t get to leave. You might get moved from the front lines, but there’s no ‘out.’”

Jensen shuddered against Misha’s body at the thought. He didn’t like being reminded of how _permanent_ their situation with ORDA was. Maybe—maybe it wouldn’t always be that way, or maybe he’d grow to like it better (or ORDA would change), but it made him distinctly uncomfortable. He could imagine how lonely and _alone_ Misha must have felt. Even understanding he couldn’t possibly know the depth of that pain and isolation without experiencing it, he was almost overwhelmed by it. “Shit, sorry, Misha, I—”

But Misha just shushed him and kept talking. “That was when I realized I was being an idiot. If I tried live on casual sex and focusing in my career, I was going to wind up burned out and giving up in short order. So I did what I should have done years before and acted on my feelings for you.” Misha’s words came out in a rush, tumbling past each other as if he were afraid to breathe, lest he lose his nerve and fail to finish. And maybe he was afraid.

“You called me,” Jensen supplied.

“Yeah, I called you, and I promise you, that was me acting on emotions I had long before I got dosed with nanolumes,” Misha murmured, pressing a kiss to the Jensen’s head just above his left ear.

Jensen let out a little sigh, but he couldn’t let go of the sense of dread he’d felt ever since learning what Markers’ special genes _did_. “Okay, so your feelings are genuine, but what about mine. Maybe I didn’t reciprocate until you were strong enough to ping my radar or something.”

Misha chuckled at the description. “You really didn’t have any feelings for me before—when you were in college?” Misha’s question was clearly a challenge.

But, no, he couldn’t say that, not honestly. He’d harbored an intense attraction to Misha throughout his undergrad experience, one that had been difficult to classify and only deepened the more he learned about their shared interests. But... “How do we know what we both felt wasn’t the result of the Marker genes?”

“All attraction is genetics and brain chemistry; I don’t see how this is all that different. I think us—our love—is the ordinary human kind that’s pretty remarkable and really hard to find. I don’t really care if there’s something extra backing it up. I know what I feel is real, and I don’t feel manipulated.”

“But why not? I mean some time someone did this to a bunch of humans... it’s like we’re pawns...” Jensen insisted.

“Jensen, are you attracted to Jared or Kane or Maj. Harris?” Misha asked, his tone testy. “Are you secretly in love with any of them?”

“Um, no,” Jensen replied. “But Jared and Kane are straight, and I’m pretty sure Harris identifies as a woman, so they don’t really count,” Jensen said in confusion.”

“Well why not?” Misha put his hands on Jensen’s shoulders and turned them both so they were face to face. “If our Marker genes are the most important thing, if they’re driving everything, dictating our lives and duping our emotions, then what would a little thing like sexual orientation or gender matter?”

“I’m already in love with you, and I knew you first.”

“Yes, you’re in love with me, I’m in love with _you_. I mean aside from a few genes and an employer, neither of us has all that much in common with Jared, or Kane, or Harris. Maybe our Marker pheromones play some part, maybe they don’t. Who cares? You know as well as I do almost nothing about who we are or what we want is dictated by any one thing—it’s not off or on, black or white. Maybe us both being markers is the icing on the cake. But I know what I feel for you. I meant it when I married you, and I still mean it now. I don’t want anyone else, and I don’t want to lose you, so unless you’ve changed your mind, just please, let go of this and come back to me.”

Misha was still holding Jensen’s shoulders, but Jensen had been steadfastly focused on Misha’s chest. The plea drew his gaze up, until his eyes locked with Misha’s, wide-eyed and startled. “When did I ever leave you?” he asked, bewildered.

“Never, I hope, but I’ve felt like you were slipping away, withdrawing, hiding from me ever since you found out.” Misha lifted one hand to cup Jensen’s cheek, his expression wary but hopeful.

Jensen was suddenly overcome by how stupidly self-centered he’d been. Rather than reaching out to Misha, bonding over their now-shared experience of finding out about aliens and space travel and crazy sci fi that was real, he’d been viewing Misha as the enemy, blaming him... and it really wasn’t fair. He could have gotten dragged into this mess the same way Misha had. If they really were drawn to other Markers and artifacts, it was dumb luck that he hadn’t already found himself under ORDA’s thumb. He could continue to bemoan his luck, or he could take the comfort and understanding Misha was offering and actually learn how to cope. All while growing closer to his spouse. “I—I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I’m an idiot. I’ve been nothing but a dick to you and—”

Jensen’s rambling apology was cut short when Misha pulled him close and mashed their lips together. It wasn’t graceful or romantic, but it was effective and got the point across. Jensen leaned in, saying his apology with sweeps of his tongue and tiny whimpers as he took the comfort Misha offered.

When they pulled apart for air, Misha hugged Jensen tight, letting Jensen tuck his head against Misha’s shoulder. “Next time I won’t shut you out. I’m sorry...”

“Shh, just, be quiet,” Misha chuckled, patting Jensen’s back. “Does this mean you’re ready to listen to all the cool things about this gig? ‘Cause I’ve been wanting to tell you, it’s not all gloom and doom and running for your life.”

“Are you trying to seduce me with your space-adventures, Colonel Collins?” Jensen teased, sounding more confident than he felt.

Misha popped his head up and made a face at Jensen. “Uh, I’m gonna have to get back to you on the whole rank thing... I’m not sure, if it’s a turn on or just creepy.”

“Me either,” Jensen sighed in relief.

~~~

 **Chapter 8:**  
Jensen would remember later—much later—that he’d been his way back from the cafeteria—not the bright, sunny one in the hospital so many stories above, but ORDA’s own underground facility. He was reading a mission briefing on his tablet—Kane was taking their team to P’thyt later that evening—so his full attention wasn’t on his surroundings.  
They were supposed to join up with a team of research scientists from there and then head out to MZ37, a small, barren planet roughly 3/4 of the way between Earth and the Licinian homeworld. It was directly along the Licinians’ approach vector and the Licinians had several outposts on the surrounding planets—rumor was they used them for natural resource harvesting—but didn’t actually control or claim MZ37. Apparently the place was undesirable even by Licinian standards. They were supposed to assess the situation—perform long-range scans, try to confirm the position and speed of the Licinian fleet, see if the Licinians were using the planets in that system as a layover, waypoint, or refueling station. Depending on the results of the initial survey, they were authorized to risk clandestine reconnaissance incursions into the surrounding planets and to set up an automated listening post. They wouldn’t have to man it—just set it up. Then someone on Earth could open a wormhole to MZ37, either travel in person to collect data, or receive a transmission from the station itself, and keep ORDA updated on the movements of the fleet.

It was the kind of mission his team hadn’t been getting before, and he had a feeling they would have been assigned to it, even if Misha hadn’t come clean with him. It was possible Jensen could have been kept in the dark about the reason behind their mission (although how they would have handled incursions into Licinian territory, he wasn’t sure), but he had a feeling Gen. Ferris and the rest of ORDA Command would have been _telling_ Jensen about the war, even if Misha hadn’t. In his mind it underscored the desperation of the situation and made him all the more grateful Misha had come clean rather than waiting for Jensen to hear it from a more impersonal source.

He was trying to get through the briefing quickly because he wanted a nap. The outpost on P’thyt was totally out of sync with their current sleep schedule, with midday falling late in Jensen’s evening, so they’d be proceeding to MZ37 immediately once picking up the scientists. So if Jensen wanted to be alert, he’d have to nap. He was grumbling internally about how he hadn’t even napped as a child, and it was _ridiculous_ that he was actually napping now.

He would remember later that he’d passed the auxiliary elevators—those that led down to the base from the south side of the canal—and was walking up the hall with his back to them. He’d looked up and waved when he saw Jared and Kane both. Jared was turning down one of the adjoining hallways and Kane was walking the opposite direction from Jensen, towards the elevators. They’d both waved back, but before Jensen glanced back at his tablet, he’d watched as Jared and Kane exchanged a glance and then looked back at him. There was something—accusatory—hateful and betrayed, distrusting, in the look, and it rattled Jensen.

He slowed, turning back to his briefing and debating whether he should follow one them—probably Jared, because he’d see Kane later, and Jared was actually his _friend_ not just his gratingly hostile CO, and if something was wrong between the two of them, he’d get a much clearer answer out of Jared, especially if it Jensen was the source of their disagreement.

He never got to make a decision, and he never saw or heard the person who stepped up behind him. He felt a sudden, agonizing jolt, along back of his neck. There was a moment’s terror of being completely unable to breathe, and then blackness consumed him.

~~~~

Jensen woke up, groggy with no clue where he was and no recollection of how he got there. He was lying on concrete, cold with a hint of dampness that suggested it was un-insulated and either in contact with the ground or possibly underground. The light was dim and yellow, casting the cracked, water-stained, painted cinderblock walls a sickly green. Jensen turned trying to gain his bearings and felt himself turning the same color as his stomach rebelled violently. He managed to avoid vomiting on himself or what he later recognized as a thin, grimy, blue-and-white striped mattress—the sort one might find in a prison bunk—and upchucked his lunch all over the floor instead. At least he thought it was his lunch... some of the details were returning, but he was still missing time, and he wasn’t sure how much.

His head _throbbed_. His neck was stiff and sore too, and when he tentatively brought his hands up to his neck for a manual inspection, he could feel a rough, abraded spot. He flinched as his fingers brushed against sensitive skin. The sensation was familiar, but not, like something he’d read about, studied, learned until he knew it inside and out, but had never _experienced_. When it finally dawned on him, his stomach clenched again, this time in fear of what it implied.

 _Stun Gun._ Or possibly a Taser or one of the Falligarian Stun Wands that reminded him of a dozen or so fictional shock weapons from KOTOR and usually made him giggle to think about. It wasn’t from a plasma rifle or pulse weapon (electrical or otherwise) because plasma weapons damaged by burns and concussive force—not shock and unconsciousness—and pulse weapons _spread_ through the body, so there was no focused impact or localized burns. The type of wound along with his hasty assessment of his surroundings suggested he was still on Earth, but that provided little comfort. There was something else, a tiny scab, on his neck very close to the burn... He couldn’t be certain without a mirror, but his gut told him it was left by a hypodermic needle. It would explain the memory loss, confusion, sluggishness, and extra wooziness he was experiencing.

 _Stungunned and drugged, what a mess_ , he thought with a shudder. At least the mental cobwebs were starting to come loose. He still had no clue how he’d gotten here, but his training was starting to kick in. The room he was in was somewhere between a room and a cell. The ceiling was high, at least 12 feet. There were no bars, but the only door was reinforced steel with a tiny, wire-mesh—reinforced window. He’d seen doors like it in psych wards and interrogation rooms. He didn’t see any obvious cameras, or other surveillance devices, but then again, the room’s lighting was so low-tech maybe they hadn’t installed anything. The thought made him shudder. Jensen didn’t want to be watched or held captive, but if his captors weren’t watching him, they wouldn’t know if he was sick or injured... It suggested they either considered him no threat, which to be honest, might have been true, or they thought the room and location were otherwise so secure they didn’t need to worry about escape. Or worse, they didn’t care what happened to him here. They’d locked him up and threw away the key.

He shuddered harder, realizing he was freezing, approaching hypothermic, and it wasn’t just because he was lying on the concrete floor. He scooted backwards onto the grimy mattress, seeking what little insulation it provided. He knew—they’d drilled it into him—as a Marker his tolerances were better than most people’s but feeling the way he did if he didn’t do something to get warmer, he’d be heading back towards unconsciousness soon and might not wake up.

 _Training, hah!_ It was so fucked up. He wasn’t a soldier. He definitely wasn’t one of the sci fi action heroes he idolized. He was just a lawyer whose life had turned itself upside down and sucked him into hell masquerading as reality. Ridiculous or not, here he was, kidnapped, and nearing hypothermia. Lying there in disbelief wasn’t going to keep him alive, so he managed to haul himself up onto the grimy mattress and take stock of his condition.

He was wearing thin, blue hospital scrubs with no logo or distinguishing marks. They were definitely not the scrubs ORDAs science and lab staff used. His feet weren’t bare, but they were clad only in socks, not shoes. Last he remembered, he’d been wearing his uniform and field boots, so whoever had taken him had stripped and redressed him. He shuddered at the thought of strange hands manhandling his unconscious body, but was more bothered by the _absence_ of all his gear and possessions. He had no ID, no wallet—which meant no cash, no cards, no driver’s license, no passport, no bar card, and no way of getting _away_ without stealing or relying on others. He had no military ID either, and he was surprised at how unsettling that was.

He might still be hopelessly new to all this, but he knew that stupid ID provided a lot of protection and stored a lot of information he didn’t want falling into the wrong hands. Like any other governmental ID, it held a chip loaded with biometric data—finger and palm prints, retinal scans, blood type, vital stats—of course ORDA also put Marker status and other genetic information on their IDs. Jensen wasn’t sure how detailed it was, but he knew it was the kind of information he really didn’t want people to have, especially not unknown kidnappers with an unknown objective. Just because ORDA hadn’t been able to develop their own gene therapy from the nanolumes didn’t mean there weren’t other things an enterprising scientist (or megalomaniacal leader) could do with that kind of genetic information. Snippets of his conversation with Katie came back to him—was all that information about his neurotransmitter levels on his ID? Would someone else figure out what he and Katie had? Even if they didn’t… could that be why he was taken. The nausea that turned his stomach this time definitely wasn’t all from the stun gun or whatever drugs had been pumped through his system. He found himself curling to the side again and emptying more bile onto the cold concrete floor.

When he flopped back on the mattress, exhausted, wiping the back of his hand across the filmy yellow strings of bile clinging to his lips, he tied to assess what else was missing. His weapons were gone. He wasn’t sure what he’d been carrying, but if he’d been on base… and he was at least _pretty_ sure he had… he would have had his sidearm and K-Bar at the very least, even if he was just walking around ORDA headquarters. His heart beat faster knowing his trusty XDM 9mm wasn’t right there by his side, and he couldn’t even fathom when he’d begun thinking of the gun as “trusty,” but it was what it was. Hours and hours practicing in ranges on world and off, going through drills of every variation Kane could conceive… he’d trained until the gun was an extension of his arm, and without it he felt _cut off_ and disconnected.

It was also very disconcerting because without his military ID or his passport, ORDA—and more importantly, Misha—wouldn’t be able to track him. He had no idea when he’d been stripped, but even if his captors had brought his belongings here, they could have still disabled or masked the signal for both chips. He could have done it in his sleep. ORDA hadn’t taught him that, but Misha had... Jensen smiled. It was one of those little gestures that made him really believe Misha was still _Misha_ , and not some yes-man government puppet and apologist. But right now, Jensen was wishing ORDA had a better way to track him—them—whatever. He would want to be able to find Misha if the tables were turned. It was entirely possible, he reasoned, ORDA had stuck them all with microchips. Of course knowing his luck that would work out as well as it did on “Stargate” with bad guys jamming, deactivating, or surgically removing the transmitters every chance they got. Still… anything to feel less alone, more hopeful.

If he was honest with himself—and it was very hard to do that right now, and he _hoped_ that was just the drugs talking—none of that was really bothering him. No, the deep-seated, nagging itch, verging on becoming a panicking ache in his soul was caused by a different absence altogether.

 _His WMD was gone._

Without it he was truly trapped. He couldn’t go anywhere. Couldn’t leave this place. Not for somewhere else on the planet, not for another planet, not for anywhere. He was cut off—separated—from Misha, and that _hurt_. In the short time since he’d opened his first wormhole, his whole universe had shifted. He expected to be able to have another way out—to reach out and be able to move. Now that he knew all the people and things out there in the universe who might want to hold him, capture him, trap him, dissect him, _use him_ , he depended on it. Needed it. The sudden loss had him reeling; he felt like the walls were closing in, crushing him.

 _Muffled voices. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move his hands. He was blindfolded and hog tied, lying on his belly on something painfully cold, his head throbbing. The air burned his lungs, his skin so cold it was numb except for the places the restraints bit into it, and he felt like someone had parked a tank on his chest, or maybe his back, since he was lying face down. He couldn’t_ breathe _, and he could feel little bursts of fiery tingles inside his body, especially in his limbs, as his body protested the lack of oxygen. The agony seemed to go on and on, each breath a belabored eternity. He couldn’t see or move or hear anything over the howling wind. He should have died, or at least passed out by now, but relief—oblivion didn’t seem to come. He was condemned to live like that forever. Each gasp grated in his throat, a thousand knives stabbing and tearing at his lungs. Then, finally hands, rough, desperate grabbing him and dragging him—a moment of nothingness followed by the pop of an aperture closing. Relief didn’t come, because no sooner could he breathe than he felt the snick of a needle sliding into his neck, and the world went fuzzy._

“J—jesus Christ,” Jensen murmured aloud, his teeth chattering. That was a memory. They’d taken him offworld and… _experimented_ on him, testing his tolerances, and then they’d drugged him. No wonder his memory was so spotty. He looked down and rubbed at his wrists and ankles—sure enough there were tell-tale abraded patches where he’d chaffed against the restraints. They probably would have looked much worse, except he’d been too cold—and in too much pain—to put up much of a struggle.

The overwhelming terror over being isolated, alone, without his WMD, with no means of escape, flared anew. If that was what his captors had done _before_ taking him here, he was certain he didn’t want to stick around for whatever they had in store.

Of course, as luck would have it, it was at that moment, Jensen heard the footsteps approaching. Slow, heavy footfalls, echoing down what sounded like a long corridor. There were voices too.

“Geez, man, it’s fuckin’ cold down here. What the hell they tryin’ to do? Kill us?” The voice was male and kind of high pitched, squeaky, like maybe it belonged to a teenager, or someone very, very nervous.

“Cold’s for the alien freak—”

Jensen’s stomach flipped, and his heart thudded in his chest because he knew without a doubt the speaker was talking about him.

“Keep the temperature at like 15 Fahrenheit and you don’t have to sedate ‘em.” The second speaker, another male with a much lower voice, answered.

They were close now, right outside the door. Jensen could hear keys clanking and jangling.

“But—I mean won’t that kill him? Give him frostbite or some’n’?” the first speaker, who Jensen dubbed squeaky, said.

The key turned in the lock and the door started to open.

Jensen struggled to sit upright while folding himself into a ball.

“Nah, man,” the deep-voiced guy said as he entered, and Jensen decided to dub him tattoo because the first thing he saw was the prominent facial tattoo over the guy’s right eye.

Jensen shuddered. It made him think of Chakotay, and considering how much he hated “Star Trek: Voyager,” he wasn’t really liking what that said about his mental state.

“—it can survive way colder temperatures than us, it just sorta… hibernates or something, like a bear, to conserve energy. So, we get parkas and the bosses get their specimen, without all that hassle.” Tattoo finished. He was a tall, light skinned, country boy, wearing, yes, an enormous parka. His companion was a young— _maybe_ eighteen—pimple-faced, squeaky-voiced beanpole with red hair and freckles. He too was wearing a parka.

Jensen didn’t want to think about what that meant about him if it really was as cold as they said it was, but judging by the way they were shivering and now that he paid attention to it, he realized he could see his own breath, he was willing to take their word for it.

“Aw gross, man, he puked,” said Squeaky, flinching away from the two pools of vomit that had stopped steaming and were starting to develop ice crystals.

“Fuck, that means we’re probably going to clean up after it while the doc is playing with him,” Tattoo said stomping further into Jensen’s room—cell—and hauling back his fist as if to punch Jensen.

Jensen flinched and held his hands up to protect his face, realizing how sluggish and unresponsive his body was as he moved. He couldn’t fight off a flea in this condition, let alone a 6-foot, two hundred-fifty–pound bar brawler like tattoo.

“Hey, wait, Doc said no fucking with the merchandise,” Squeaky exclaimed.

When the blow he’d been expecting didn’t land, he peeked around his hands and saw Squeaky had grabbed Tattoo’s fist, and was doing his best to haul the bulkier thug back.

“You punch him she’ll be pissed.”

Tattoo seemed to see reason in this, and slammed his fist into the wall instead, which started a new round of cursing about how cold it was and more threats about how much he wanted to fuck up Jensen’s pretty face.

Jensen just rolled his eyes at that. Assholes had been throwing around _pretty_ since he was in fifth grade. He was about to open his mouth and bitch at the guy to get some new material when Squeaky spoke again.

“How come you keep calling him, it?”

Tattoo scoffed. “‘Cause it’s an it. Not a he. He’s one of ‘em fuckin’ Markers or whatever they call it. Not human. He’s got weird alien or mutant genes or some’n’ that let him do shit, like not freeze his ass off in this meat locker. They think they’re better’n us or somethin’, and it’s bullshit man, bullshit!”

Tattoo wasn’t done though. “But, I thought some of the bosses’ guys are—whadda ya call it? Markers, too? Like Padalecki? He seemed pretty human.”

Jensen choked, coughing, as he felt his heart skip a beat. Had he heard right? Surely they couldn’t mean— But it was too late. Tattoo had heard him, and he was leaning down, his face inches from Jensen’s leering.

“Oh, that’s right, isn’t it? It thinks Captain Padalecki’s its friend or soemthin’.” Tattoo straightened up and cackled, arching his back to get more play out of the laugh.

Jensen was relieved to see at least Squeaky seemed a little put off by his coworker’s behavior.

“Padalecki was born human, like us. He just got dosed with some shit that gives him extra abilities, like this thing here; Padalecki’s still a good human who knows whose side he’s on. But this thing here? It was _born_ like this. Can you imagine? Fuuuuck.”

“That is fucked up,” Squeaky agreed, then to Jensen, “Come on, up—” he paused and pointed to the stun gun strapped over his parka to his hip. “You cooperate or I let Dale here bust your pretty fuckin’ face in.”

Jensen tried to move, staggering to his feet, only for Squeaky and Tattoo’s hands gripping his biceps and hauling him out of the cell and down the hall. They kept talking, but Jensen couldn’t really listen. His heart was racing, and Tattoo’s words were stuck playing over and over again in his mind. Padalecki… _Captain_ Padalecki… Who was a Marker but not by birth… They meant Jared. His Jared. His _best friend_. The guy on Misha’s team he trusted to have Misha’s back. Could it be true? Could Jared really have sold him out to these people, did he really see Jensen—and probably Misha too—as alien freaks? Could Jared do this?

The fears and doubts tumbled in Jensen’s mind without reprieve. He didn’t learn anything more from Squeaky and Tattoo, and until the last 20 feet or so of their journey the temperature was still too cold for him to begin to recover.

He did memorize the path, whatever good that would do him, 300 feet left, fifty feet right, 20 feet right, and then another 100 feet and into the elevator. They went up, at least two floors, from what Jensen could make of the scuffed elevator buttons, they were underground, but how many levels or _where_ , he wasn’t sure. The elevator doors opened into a floor that felt blissfully—yet agonizingly—warm, they walked twenty feet, turned left, and deposited Jensen in something that reminded him of a dentist’s chair, but with restraints. Before he’d recovered enough to move, they’d restrained him.

“Ah, Captain Ackles, what a fine specimen you are. Can’t wait to get my hands in your brain!” A tall, blonde woman with her hair tugged back in a painfully tight bun said, entering the room.

“Who’re you? What do you want?” Jensen managed, his voice growling.

“You can call me doctor or ‘doc’ for short, and I just want you to lie back and let me pump you full of drugs.” She cackled.

Thirty seconds with the woman, and Jensen was already annoyed. She seemed like the caricature of a mad scientist, and if Jensen had to bet, it was all a bet to make him think precisely that and get him to underestimate her.  
“Sorry, but I do.” Her expression turned to a frown, before shooting back to a smile. “See, we know all you Markers do some pretty nifty stuff with your brains, but we heard you’re special—you’ve got higher levels of some _very_ useful neurotransmitters. We need to help people get around better without leaving the planet, if you know what I mean,” she was leaning so close her breath was falling hot and wet across Jensen’s nose. “So we devised a drug that should make your body make even _more_ , and then we’re going to harvest the chemicals from your brain and give it to our guys, how’s that sound?”

“Like fucked up shit,” Jensen groused.

 _Doc_ just smiled and ignored him. And pushed an enormous syringe of _something_ into him.

He didn’t feel _woozy_ or disoriented after that, just more … desperate, which Jensen realized could be the neurotransmitter levels in his brain increasing, or just a reaction to the additional information. His stomach was in knots because clearly, whoever his captors were, they had someone on the inside. Only someone with ORDA clearance and good hacking skills could have gotten into his ORDA medical file.

Time passed like a yo-yo, either flashing by or dragging on. Doc hooked electrodes up to his brain—apparently she didn’t have any of the nifty scanners ORDA had—and monitored him, making sickening happy noises every once in a while. When he was done, Squeaky and Tattoo came back and dragged him to his cell.

Jensen realized it had probably been at least 12 hours since he’d last drunk or eaten anything. He was terrified his captors would just leave him alone to rot, worried only about his fucking brain chemistry, but apparently even they got the memo that he needed to eat to stay alive. Only, rather than food, they brought him warm Gatorade. Just enough sugar to keep his body functioning minimally, electrolytes to keep his brain chemistry in check, and warm so it didn’t freeze instantly.

The warmth of the drink was agonizing, temporarily raising his body temperature and making him feel that much worse, as he waited for his body to re-establish equilibrium and adjust to the sub-freezing temperatures of his cell. They’d give him just long enough to cool off to sluggishness, then haul him from the cell again for more injections blood draws and monitoring. With each trip and each passing moment, he grew more and more desperate, all the while wondering about the possibility of Jared’s betrayal, needing to get to his WMD. He could feel himself searching for it, _reaching_ , only it wasn’t physical reaching, but somehow it didn’t matter. He could feel it like it was just out of grasp. Every time he tried, the feeling got clearer, stronger, like his WMD was drawing him to it, inviting him to find it.

After about a day—he thought it was a day anyway—he knew what room he thought the WMD was in. There was an… office… or at least he _guessed_ it was, about 100 feet further down the hall from the testing room on the same floor on the left side of the hall. If he could somehow get free, he could _get_ to it and try to get out by opening a wormhole. It would be tricky, since he didn’t know _where_ he was, exactly, but he was determined he could make work! He was sure… and if not, well, he could always try to run back to the elevators. If there was enough confusion—if such a thing ever happened—he could also back track, past the experiment room, and catch an elevator to the surface and try to wormhole from there.

Only, he never seemed to get an opportunity. He was cold—frozen—every moment he was in his cell, and still too cold to resist when Squeaky and Tattoo passed him into the Doc’s care. Then he was restrained.

On his third trip to Doc’s experiment room, roughly 30 hours (his best estimate) since he’d been taken, Doc _didn’t_ move for the restraints right away. Sensing a possibility to escape, Jensen tensed his muscles.

“Why aren’t you restraining him?” Squeaky asked, leaning away from Jensen’s chair as if he was fearing Jensen would lash out at any moment. Squeaky was physically holding Jensen’s hand to the chair.

“I’m sedating it,” Doc said, turning around holding two needles. One was a syringe, which she immediately began pushing into Jensen’s arm. The other, was an overly large biopsy needle. “I need to stick this,” she held up the biopsy needle, “into its brain for a tissue sample, and I don’t want it screaming in pain, while I go exploring.”

Sheer terror ran through Jensen. Even as the sedative slipped into his veins, he could feel every muscle clench, tense, ready for action. He _had_ to do something, or she was going to kill him.

Just then, a loud _bang_ sounded from somewhere in the building, causing Jensen, Squeaky, and the Doc to flinch.

“You—” Doc barked at Tattoo, “Take your friend here and go find out what happened. For your sakes, I really hope the noise is just noise, and not a sign of something worse. Or there’s gonna be hell to pay!”

Squeaky and Tattoo nodded and jogged out of the room without further ado.

Doc had her back turned, so Jensen seized his chance, he curled his right palm into a fist and swung.

Next thing he knew, she was tripping, slipping to the floor. Before she could move, Jensen was up, upending a rolling table, and slamming a large metal trey onto her head. He didn’t check to see if she was down, just got up and ran on unsteady legs, the adrenaline counteracting the effects of the sedatives somewhat. He didn’t check to see if she was unconscious. He didn’t have time. He just needed to get his gear and leave, report back on what he’d heard.

He reached the room he’d felt drawn to, and with shaking hands, darted inside. It was an office and on the wall immediately to the left of the door, was an array of shelves and cubbies built into the wall. _Yes_! Just like he had felt it. His WMD was here along with the rest of his gear. Just _sitting_ there on a shelf ready for him to grab. He could feel the drugs taking effect, already impairing his thought processes, so he took it one step at a time. Gun, holster, holster to belt… but his clothes and belt were nowhere to be found. He’d just have to make do.

“You’re not getting out of here, you alien _Freak_.”

Jensen whirled, shaky on his feet, his hands still clutching his sidearm, hands partly hidden from view. It was tattoo guy, the same asshole who’d pulled him from his cell earlier. Someone must have sent him to check on Jensen after the commotion started. “Seriously, is that the best you’ve go—” Jensen started, only to see the guy was reaching for his gun, which was—lucky for Jensen’s sake—currently stuffed down the back of his pants. Instinct and training took over, and Jensen turned, bringing his weapon to bear on his assailant. Two shots to center of mass followed by a head shot in case the guy was wearing a vest. Statistics about number of shots required to incapacitate correlated by bullet size rattled in Jensen’s head. Before he’d even _realized_ he’d made the decision to fire, tattoo guy was down, dead, his Colt 1911 clattering to the ground between them. _Fuck._

He’d thought the one benefit about being in the alien-fighting military might be not having to kill _human beings_ , but clearly he wasn’t so lucky. _He didn’t think of me as a human_ , Jensen reflected, darkly.  
Shaken, he staggered towards the body and kicked the gun away, almost tripping as he did so. He lowered his XDM and managed to make it back to the shelf. He just had to grab the rest of his shit and go. He pocketed the WMD, breathing a little easier the moment its reassuring weight slipped into his pocket. A wave of dizziness washed over him, making him clutch at the shelf for support. His ID, passport, wallet, and knife were all in a large zip-top bag. He reached out and grabbed it, figuring since his clothes were nowhere to be seen, he might as well just grab it and go.

The sound of footsteps approaching took Jensen by surprise. They shouldn’t have. The adrenaline rush fading, the fucking drugs were starting to take him under again; he was feeling wobblier by the minute. If this was another one of his captors he might well be screwed. He was feeling unsteady enough already he wouldn’t trust his aim from this distance. He whirled, XDM still clutched in his right hand, swinging it towards the figure that appeared in the doorway.

“Misha?” Jensen asked uncertainly, blinking. He expected the image to be a mirage, but it wasn’t. The tall, fuzzy, but familiar, shape stepped closer, but Jensen didn’t—couldn’t—lower the gun until he was sure.

“It’s me,” Misha confirmed, before tilting his head to speak into his radio. “Package acquired. Fall back and regroup at the extraction point. Harris, tear this place apart. I want answers, damnit.”

Flooded with overwhelming relief, Jensen let his arm drop, slipping the gun into his holster where he’d managed to attach it to his scrubs. WMD was tucked safely in his pocket, the rest of his possessions were still in the bag, which his left hand was clinging to with a death grip. The sedative or whatever they’d injected him with, wasn’t instantaneous, but he was already feeling sleepy, and a little dizzy, the room blurring around the edges. “Aren’t you supposed to be on A—Alcalus?” Jensen stammered recalling the planet to which Misha had been headed when last they spoke. He couldn’t remember any details, something about a lead from the Igth about a device that could be used to force the redirection of wormhole apertures—Misha had mentioned they were hoping they could use and adapt it to either block wormholes from most major metropolitan areas or at the very least create safe zones or exclusion zones free from unexpected Licinian incursion. It was a big deal, and Jensen knew he’d been held captive long enough Misha should have already left.

“What, did you think I’d leave finding you to someone else?” he said teasingly, but with a hiccup that revealed how terrified he was. “Nah, Colonel Peleggi’s team took the Alcalus mission. Harris’s team is here with me finding you,” Misha reassured.

It made sense. Peleggi was one of General Bellman’s officers and Bellman hated Lehne, which meant Ferris generally trusted her judgment. “I thought maybe—” Jensen tried to take a step forward, but tripped.

Luckily, Misha was already closing the distance between him caught him, wrapping his arms around Jensen’s waist to keep him upright.

“Sorry, sedated,” Jensen murmured. “How—how’d you find me?”

“We brainstormed, since no one had seen you leave, and your ID apparently entered an elevator, but never left, we figured someone might have taken you out of there by wormhole. We found one… traced it to an acidic, icy hell hole, then traced another wormhole back to Earth. That was almost a dead end, because we were able to trace were four different intraplanetary wormholes from there—Katie’s doing, nice trick by the way, she said you helped her with it?”

Jensen murmured, but Misha kept on talking.

“—but only two led anywhere near a facility with the kind of security and concealment options likely to work for holding you, especially if they were planning to experiment on you, which we knew was a distinct possibility. This was the first on the list—we’re three stories underground in a decommissioned bunker in southwestern Nebraska. This was a top secret facility, so whoever set this up had friends in high places, or a really skilled hacker.” Misha gave Jensen an assessing look. “What were they—”

“Neurotransmitters,” Jensen answered, the word slurring.

Misha nodded, understanding. “Come on, we gotta go.” Misha tucked Jensen in against his side, and led him out of the office. He kept them moving away from the elevator, which suggested they were taking an alternate exit.

 _Like by wormhole, genius_ , Jensen mentally scolded himself. It was a good thing, because bursts of P90 fire were reverberating from that general direction.

“It’s all right, just keep moving Jen. We’re getting you out of here.” Misha sounded distant, like he wasn’t really aware of what he was saying, just murmuring and babbling by reflex.

“Thought maybe it was a conflict of interests, they’d send someone else, since I’m your husband. Or, you know, higher priority mission—” Jensen mumbled, resuming his earlier train of thought. He trailed off when the look on Misha’s face registered.

“You’re a commissioned ORDA officer and a Marker with the strongest expression and most diverse range of abilities we know. We’re at war, and someone kidnaps you? Trust me when I say there is no higher priority mission. Besides,” Misha leaned closer to Jensen, the fingers of his left hand brushing gently over the mark from the stun gun, “ouch. But like I was saying… General Ferris wouldn’t pull me off this. Sure, there are full Colonels she could have called on, but she doesn’t actually _trust_ any of them enough for something like this.” Misha grunted, as he shifted Jensen’s weight, bending over to tuck his left arm under Jensen’s knees, picking him up in a bridal carry.

And not a moment too soon. Jensen was fading fast and finding it harder and harder to keep his balance or keep his eyes open; he felt his head flopping towards Misha’s shoulder and gave into it.

“Their loyalties lie… elsewhere,” Misha said, finishing his earlier thought. He muttered something into his radio that Jensen didn’t catch.

Jensen could hear footsteps approaching. They sounded like standard-issue boots. It must be Katie or Jake running.

“Ah, crap, they got you good, didn’t they?” he murmured.

“Jared—” Jensen started, it came out sounding more like a question though, and Misha seemed to take it as such.

“Sorry, he’s not here, Jen,” Misha was shaking his head. “I’ve got Cassidy and Abel here, but Kane’s team had to leave, so Jared volunteered to take your spot on the MZ37 mission.”

“Wait—need tuh…” Jensen slurred.

“Shh, babe,” Misha cooed, his voice that of a lover, not a superior officer. “I gotcha, I got ya.”

Jensen’s eyes popped open again. This was important. “No, you have to understand. They said—they said _Jared_ did this. Jared helped!” Jensen didn’t want to believe it, and saying it just made the horror more real. But he had to get the words out because the stupid shot they’d hit him with was dragging him under again, and he needed to let Misha know.

He saw the shock in Misha’s eyes, accompanied by what felt like a wave of disbelief, before he slipped into unconsciousness.

~~~

 **Chapter 9:**  
Jensen was warm, fuzzy even, surrounded by familiar, soothing beeping noises his mind quickly placed as the infirmary of the medical wing at ORDA Headquarters. He was lying in a soft bed, wearing what felt like a hospital gown and nothing else. He didn’t care though, because he wasn’t freezing, it didn’t hurt to breathe, he no longer felt dehydrated, and his head had stopped throbbing—the latter two undoubtedly thanks to the IV taped to the back of his left hand.

“Is he really going to be okay?” Misha’s voice filtered through the haze in Jensen’s mind, carrying with it an edge of relief and ongoing terror that seemed almost physically tangible and causing Jensen to give a little whimper.

“Yes, and it sounds like he’s awake, so why don’t we go check on him?” Katie answered, sounding a little amused. “Rise and shine, Captain Ackles,” Katie sing-songed to him.

Jensen hadn’t realized it, but his eyes were still tightly squeezed shut. He relaxed and blinked open, relieved to find the light dim, and not at all painful.

“How are you feeling?” She asked.

“M—mostly okay, I guess,” Jensen croaked, greedily sucking down ice chips as Misha offered them to him on a spoon. “Just… kind of hurt for a minute while I was waking up, but now,” he moved his head side to side, rolled his shoulders, and wiggled his toes. Everything seemed to be working okay. “It’s okay now. Nothing really hurts except my throat’s kind of … scratchy.”

“Well, like I was about to tell Colonel Collins, you’re going to be fine. Your lungs check out—you were a bit dehydrated when we brought you in, but there’s no damage I can find. They hit you with a fairly large dose of a hypnotic medication, but it was nothing unusual—just a cocktail of benzodiazepines appropriately calculated for your height, weight, and tolerance to knock you out quickly and keep you asleep for a few hours. As for the other injections—I’m still analyzing the compound. It was already breaking down in your bloodstream, so I may not get a clear picture of what it was. I can’t even be sure it worked—you did have elevated neurotransmitter levels and you pheromone levels were off the charts when we brought you in here, but whether that’s due to the drug, I can’t say.” She shrugged. “Given the circumstances, it could have been a stress response. We’ve seen you have markedly elevated levels before in similarly stressful circumstances.” And by that, Jensen knew she meant the car accident that had popped him on ORDA’s radar in the first place. “The compound might even have been a placebo—depending on their intel they might have figured they could stress you into producing enough neurotransmitters to… harvest… and injected an inert substance to strengthen the ruse. The injection sites were all clean; from what I can tell—and our trusty little scanner agrees—all the needles and injection sites were properly sterilized, so there’s no risk of secondary infection or contamination, but “ Katie shared a knowing glance with Misha, “The thing that actually concerns me the most is that whoever drugged you definitely had access to your ORDA medical files, because the sedatives? That was the precise dose and combination I would have used. And as you probably figured out, Markers’ unique brain chemistry tends to screw with typical dosages of sedatives and hypnotics requiring a significantly larger than average dose compared to a nonMarker of the same body mass.”

Jensen, having already figured out ORDA had a pretty big leak—whether it actually was Jared or not, he wasn’t quite ready to consider—was more alarmed by Katie’s uncertainty over his captors’ or attackers’ identities. “Wait, whoever? What, are you saying you didn’t catch them?”

Misha’s expression and posture transformed from concerned husband to concerned ORDA Lieutenant Colonel. Jensen had seen Misha switch modes like that so many times by this point and it never ceased to amaze him. “The group of individuals—we believe actually an organization—who kidnapped you included Markers in their ranks. The Markers had WMDs. In addition to the assailant you killed, we shot and killed five armed combatants while infiltrating the bunker, and wounded another three after locating you. Two have since died. It appears all were nonMarkers, no ORDA personnel among them. Major Harris chased a group from the lab where they had taken your blood samples, but they fled through a series of intraplanetary wormholes. Harris’s team couldn’t follow them all, and eventually they lost the trail. Of the three suspects who were wounded, two since died—one of his injuries; the other apparently had a cyanide tablet on her person. She succeeded in committing suicide before we could stop her. The third is awake. Harris has been interrogating him, but…”

“But he’s another nonMarker who doesn’t really know anything, especially not who’s behind this,” Jensen realized, his voice grim and tight.

“You knew?” Misha asked, the officer mask slipping and the emotionally distressed husband showing through.

“They weren’t exactly _quiet_ when they were manhandling me,” Jensen admitted. “Do you want me to save it for the official de-brief, or…”

Misha and Katie shared another look, nonverbal communication zinging back and forth with raised eyebrows and subtle tilts of the head, at last, Misha spoke. “I had a very brief, very succinct conversation with General Ferris while you were unconscious. Everyone knows ORDA’s unique circumstances have given rise to a number of shifting factions and loyalties within the organization, but this—assault—especially the timing of it, has far surpassed anything we have experienced to date. We have either a serious leak, outside moles, or a rogue faction that is now recruiting from outside the organization. With the threat to planetary security and to our servicemembers and staff so high, General Ferris has asked me to lead the investigation and report only to her. As for an official debrief, this, and any further questions General Ferris poses, are going to be what you get. No one else gets brought in unless General Ferris and I both approve and I will promise you we will run that by you before we do.”

“Doesn’t—doesn’t that kind of secrecy action require the support of at least one other General—” Jensen asked.

“Due to the circumstances, the investigation is staying outside the Governing Council,” Misha replied, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Oh—” Jensen gasped. A decision like that… _Gen. Ferris suspects at least one of the other Generals was involved._ He’d had his own suspicions, but to hear that General Ferris shared them made Jensen feel uniquely exposed and vulnerable.

“I can leave if you—” Katie started, turning towards the door.

“No, wait!” Jensen called out, his dry throat catching on the exclamation and setting off a hacking fit. When he managed to get it under control, he added, “Please,” looking to Misha for confirmation. “I’m assuming you’re already on General Ferris’s list, since you’re in this room, and I’d like to tell both of you—in case anything I say helps.”

Misha looked a little uncomfortable, and _frustrated_ with himself if Jensen wasn’t mistaken. But he didn’t object, so Jensen began. He proceeded to tell Misha and Katie what he’d heard, his sentences starting off halting, but growing smother as he went on. He was starting to find his own emotionally detached space for delivering debriefs. It wasn’t all that different from the headspace he’d learned to slip into as a lawyer—the detachment that allowed him to remain a critical thinker and zealous advocate for his clients even when faced with the most deplorable events and circumstances his mind could conceive. When he finished, Misha and Katie both looked more exhausted than he felt, which considering he was still fighting off the sedatives and whatever else his kidnappers had given him, was saying a lot.

“I—I don’t want to believe what they said, about Jared? I mean, he’s my best friend, and I trust him. But,” Jensen shook his head. “What if it’s true?” He looked to his companions for reassurance.

Katie was looking down at her hands, her expression extremely troubled. Misha’s face grown sour, pained, and he was glaring at a spot on the wall over Jensen’s shoulder.

“Misha, Jared is on your team and you guys have the same cover job. In a given week, you spend more time with him than you do with me. He has keys to our apartment. He knows everything about us, you gotta admit he would be a really good source—”

“I trust Jared with my life—with _your_ life!” Misha exclaimed, his voice rising to a half-shout. His eyes snapped back to Jensen’s, his expression sad and apologetic. “He’s your best friend…” It was almost a plea.

“I—I know. I don’t want to believe. I can’t believe. But what if it’s true? Whatever else I am, I’m still a lawyer, and that’s the kind of question I have to ask. I can’t ignore it, and if this was a case, I’d be really worried about what that answer held, digging for answers, a plausible explanation, anything,” he replied.

“So, you want me to investigate my second in command for arranging the kidnapping and attempted murder of my husband, his best friend?” Misha shot back, his hands flying up in frustration.

“I don’t want you to do that. I just want to forget I ever heard anything. I want to believe every other explanation, but I think General Ferris’ ordered you to.”

“Jensen—”

Memory flashed behind Jensen’s eyes. The hallway. The exchanged glances. Jared. Pain. “He was there—” Jensen murmured.

“Wha—” Katie started.

“No, not at the bunker. Here, on base, just before I was taken. I saw Kane, I saw Jared, they gave each other some funny look, and then— _bam_! Someone hit me from behind. I don’t think Jared—or Kane, for that matter—would have seen anything, they were both walking away, but Jared was there,” Jensen said, his voice shaking.

Misha let out a long, pained sigh. “O—okay. I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll, I’ll investigate Jared, but if you’re saying Kane was around, I’m looking into him too, I don’t care how much it pisses him off.”

“Okay,” Jensen agreed, hating himself for even mentioning it, but knowing Misha had come to the right conclusion. He looked down at his body, still tucked in the white sheets and pastel green blanket of the infirmary. What a fucking mess.

“Okay,” Katie said suddenly, with forced cheeriness and a clap of her hands, snapping Jensen and Misha both out of their introspection and doing her best to lighten the mood. “So, now that we’ve got the topic of incredibly unpleasant investigations out of the way, I do have some good news. Considering I can’t find anything out of the ordinary about Captain Ackles beyond elevated neurotransmitters—which are expected—and the lingering effects of the sedative—which is rapidly being flushed out of your system and is _way_ past the danger zone for respiratory distress or other complications. You,” she pointed at Jensen, “get to go home, as long as you have someone to watch you.” She waggled an eyebrow at Misha.

Misha started to open his mouth to protest, but Katie cut him off.

“Nuh-uh.” She shook her finger back and forth in warning. “Yes you have a very important investigation, but you’ve just spent forty hours on duty, and I’m guessing at least fifty awake. All while dealing with an extraordinary amount of emotional distress. I’m putting you both on 24 hours medical leave starting when I get Jensen processed to leave.”

Misha huffed, but he cast a glance sideways at Jensen, and Jensen could see his relief.

“Jensen, you’ll have to check-in with me before going back on duty, but assuming you actually get some rest and don’t have any unforeseen complications, I see no reason why you can’t join back up with your team then,” Katie added with a smile.

“Sounds good to me,” Jensen replied.

“Okay, now let me just get you some clothes and the discharge paperwork, and you’ll be on your way, just as soon as I disconnect the IV.” Katie ran out of the room only to return moments later with a clipboard, sweat pants, and a loose button-up shirt.

Jensen was no longer in pain, but as Katie and Misha prepared him for release, he found himself troubled, and bone weary with exhaustion.

~~~

The first thing Jensen did upon getting home was head out to the balcony. He’d been underground for far too long, too many hours—days—and he desperately needed some fresh air. The city spread around him, the murmur of traffic, a seaplane gliding in for a landing on Lake Union, the thumping bass of a neighbor’s sub-woofer, the light scent of barbeque wafting on the breeze, the morning sun rising higher in the sky behind them. It was so alive and real and familiar… and it was all at risk. It was only a matter of time before the Licinian fleet would be there, if they didn’t destroy Earth first, or otherwise permanently harm the Terran people. What would happen if the average human found out there were aliens on Earth’s doorstep? People walking among them who had _inhuman_ capabilities? That their governments had all known for years—not just decades, but centuries for some?

Jensen could imagine. Plenty of science fiction writers before him had pondered those questions and reached conclusions, none of them encouraging. But honestly? Discovery was the least of their worries. If what he thought was happening was actually happening—and the more he learned, the more the pieces started falling together—Earth, humanity, and life as they knew it, were _doomed_. Jensen was in a position to do something about it, to _try_ to stop it, if only he could survive long enough to do it.

He sensed movement behind him, but didn’t tense, without looking or hearing, he could _feel_ that it was Misha coming closer. “Hey,” Jensen murmured, turning from the view to look back at his husband.

Misha looked lost, emotionally devastated, and overwhelmed. Jensen had never seen him so wrecked, not even thinking back to the time when Misha must have been grieving for Colonel Morgan and the rest of his team. It was as if Misha was naked, stripped bare of every masque, shield, and artifice he clung to in daily life. For the first time, Jensen was seeing _all of_ Misha as he truly was. He was husband, officer, fighter, scientist, lover, best friend, and revolutionary rolled into one.

Jensen did the only thing he could: he opened his arms, and let Misha fall against him, capturing his mouth in a kiss.

Misha’s arms encircled him, hands moving, frantic, reaching and touching, as if Jensen might disappear at any moment.

“I’m here, I’m real…” Jensen managed to murmur against Misha’s lips.

“Oh god,” Misha murmured between kisses. “I thought I lost you.” His lips moved from Jensen’s to press kisses all over Jensen’s face, eyelids, forehead, nose, cheeks, the crown of his head. Any place Misha could reach his lips touched, feather-light as if just trying to hang on, reassure himself Jensen was really there. “Thought you were gone. Thought…” Misha was panting. He pulled Jensen close, crushing Jensen against his chest as Jensen flopped bonelessly.

He could hear, feel Misha’s heartbeat hammering against his chest. A frantic stutter-stop interrupting the pounding only to resume again. Jensen felt like his ribs would collapse under the onslaught, as if Misha’s heart was trying to leap into Jensen’s body, the distance between them too great. He’d never felt anything like it before. It was too real and yet too unbelievable to be real, and before he could wrap his mind around it, Misha was speaking again.

“I thought they had finally taken everything from me. Everything I always wanted to protect. They had you… they had you… they could have… would have… almost…” Misha’s head was tucked into the space between Jensen’s neck and shoulder, lips brushing against his ear. His voice loud and clear, though the volume was no more than a whisper. It was like he was speaking _inside_ Jensen’s head. Inside his mind—

At that moment Misha pulled back, turning his head as Jensen turned his, just enough so their eyes locked—

And the connection bloomed between them, the nascent tingle that had been Jensen’s constant companion since he’d first picked up the WMD growing and unfurling into a spark, the spark flaring, flashing so bright, so big—

And the walls fell down between their minds. One moment they were Jensen and Misha, two separate people. The next they were one. And yeah, that sounded corny in Jensen’s mind… or maybe it was Misha’s because as soon as they _connected_ they were both present together in each other’s minds. Only _not_ because it was like their existence was suddenly shared.

“Oh my god… I’m in your head,” Jensen’s said aloud, his eyes blinking open.

Only, he didn’t remember closing them in the first place, and when he looked at Misha, his lips were moving along with Jensen’s though the audible sounds were coming from Jensen’s lips.

“You’re in mine,” Misha said, and Jensen realized his lips were moving too.

The world was sparkling before his eyes, blue and green and bright, but not painful. And it was the sparkling of crystal’s refracting light, not some stupid teen vampire bullshit.

Misha laughed.

Jensen was smiling. In his mind he was seeing where he couldn’t see—in his mind everything Misha’s eyes took in were projected so together he had almost a 360 panorama of the world around them. The light seemed different, more like they were on M’Nell than Earth. Cool in tone yet soul-warming.

Misha was stroking his hands up and down Jensen’s arms, and Jensen could feel the familiar calluses and gentle-strong fingers against his skin, but he could also feel himself—Misha—stroking himself. It was trippy, and should have been disorienting, but somehow it was _natural_ as if he’d unearthed a hidden part of himself that was always there, waiting, just waiting to wake up, and now it had, the awareness was really just a part of himself waking up from a long nap.

 _Rip Van Winkle._ The thought was definitely from Misha’s part of their brain, their shared… awareness.

 _More like Sleeping Beauty_ Jensen’s mind answered back. Or at least he thought it did. Because right now he found himself—and Misha too—getting sucked away by the undertow of the flow of thoughts swirling, moving, tumbling and splashing around.

“You did not just think of ‘The Ordinary Princess!’” someone—Misha—said and thought, but Jensen was already answering—no they were both aware—that this was an echo of Jensen’s childhood jam-packed (or was it packed with jam?) with obscure sci fi, fantasy, and fairytales.

“Yeah, it really is kind of a shock my parents didn’t suspect I was gay,” Jensen deadpanned, or at least the closest to it he could manage when they both already knew everything he was thinking and feeling.

They drifted a few minutes, maybe longer, just holding on, standing on their balcony, outside in the sunlight, the world cast in jewel tones and colored with each other’s awareness. Sensation and data seemed to tumble in—air temperature coupled with the feel of the breeze against their skin, how it felt more like a gentle kiss to Misha, but was stirring up goosebumps on Jensen’s arms, individual hairs bending in the breeze. The sun was bright, and Jensen had taken out his contacts, so the world was a little blurry, but for Misha it was crystal clear. They could see themselves as they saw each other, and Jensen saw beauty in every freckle of his own nose, and knew it was Misha’s emotion.

When they’d absorbed all they could, a wave of urgency broke over them. In unison they sucked in a breath, looking down, then their eyes snapping up, locking together once more.

“I need—” Misha was still trying to talk aloud, the words coming out strained, pained, around gasps.

“Need you inside. Now…” Jensen finished. He’d never—they’d never, neither of them, and he _knew_ that because he could feel Misha’s shock—felt this way. It wasn’t lust or desire or want or even _need_ in a way he’d ever experienced. It was more like some kind of—biological imperative— _on steroids_ —in overdrive— _really, who even uses that term anymore?_ —necessity. And it was coursing through them and consuming them with an urgency they couldn’t resist. Jensen was trying to equate it to an uncomfortable romance novel, but his mind just couldn’t connect the thought, neither could Misha’s because this was serious, and should have been uncomfortable, but wasn’t. Well it _was_ uncomfortable, but only in the sense that it was _physically_ painful the longer they weren’t—

 _Fucking like bunnies?_

That simile was definitely Misha’s.

But there was no emotional awkwardness, no sense of cheesiness, and somehow there was an undercurrent of reassurance that they would be able to relate this… experience… to anyone like them without any awkward or painful giggles.

Jensen couldn’t really fathom why they would need or want to share something so private, but he—or maybe Misha—or both of them seemed to accept there was a purpose there, so he—they—left the thought alone.

Misha’s hands were already moving, their bodies responding to unconscious imperatives faster than their conscious minds could. He was unbuttoning the buttons of Jensen’s shirt, thumbs and fingertips stroking against Jensen’s chest, the pads of his fingers sending sparks of sensation as they caressed. Only Jensen could feel what Misha felt, feel the brush of his skin under fingertips. It was overwhelming, heady, and he let out a moan that Misha echoed as his knees gave out, Jensen’s hands coming up reflexively to grip Misha’s hips, fingers working their way under Misha’s untucked shirt. He was again hit with the jolt of dual sensation, Misha’s skin sweat damp and warm under his fingers, coupled with Misha’s shock of pleasure, intake of breath, at the sudden caress. He could feel the blood rushing downwards, his dick filling, growing hard, pressing against the zipper of his jeans… only he wasn’t wearing Jeans; he was still in the sweatpants Katie had sent him home from the hospital wearing. That was _Misha’s_ feeling—only they were _both_ aroused. He could feel Misha’s erection poking him in the hip and felt what it felt like poking… himself. Just as he could feel Misha’s crotch tantalizingly close and feel how Misha felt as the head of his—Jensen’s—cock nudged at Misha’s fly.

“Holy crap.”

They both said it out loud.

 _Don’t you think we’re invoking religious iconography an awful lot for a couple of Atheists?_ Misha spoke inside Jensen’s head.

 _It’s an expression… and if you make me quote Daniel Jackson in the middle of sex, I—_ Jensen wasn’t really sure which of the ten different reactions that flowed through his head would have competed the sentence, but Misha knew them all, so it didn’t matter.

 _I know._ He could hear the impish grin in Misha’s voice even though Misha didn’t speak aloud.

Before Jensen could ponder that further, Misha was slipping his shirt off his shoulders, tugging when the cuffs tried to get stuck on his wrists. Jensen opened his mouth to speak, but the thought was gone, lost somewhere between them as Misha leaned forward and nipped at Jensen’s Adam’s apple, the brush of teeth over skin electrifying. Misha began a long slide to his knees as Jensen inhaled, snagging Jensen’s nipple in his teeth on the way down. The noise Jensen made was somewhere between a moan and a hiss. He could feel Misha’s teeth biting into the hypersensitive skin, sending jolts of pleasure through his pec, throughout his torso, and spiraling down into his groin, pooling in his belly with the promise of what was to come. At the same time he felt what Misha felt—teeth nibbling, teasing, twisting as Jensen’s perky nipple brushed against his lips, sucking feeling flesh tighten beneath his mouth.

Jensen could lose himself drifting, Misha’s teeth a bright point of connection in the shining, three-dimensional map their minds had drawn around them. He was dimly aware of his hands moving, sliding up Misha’s body the lower Misha slipped. As Misha’s teeth pulled away and his lips began to work their way down Jensen’s body, Jensen tangled his fingers in Misha’s hair, pulling his husband closer, holding on to everything he’d almost lost. Jensen wanted access to Misha’s skin, he needed to touch, feel, but Misha was still clothed…

Only Misha already knew what he needed, so Misha was leaning back, breaking contact long enough for Jensen to deftly unbutton his uniform shirt, sliding it off Misha’s shoulders even as Misha lifted his undershirt up and off.

As Jensen’s fingers traced paths across the newly exposed skin of Misha’s shoulders and back, tracing scars, anchoring himself to Misha and Misha to him, Misha was slipping Jensen’s sweatpants off, sliding them down his hips enough to work Jensen’s erection free, pressing his lips to Jensen’s head, tracing the slit with his tongue.

They both lost it a little as the sensations crossed their connection. It was too much and not enough. Instant reward, the result of every action immediately communicated and received. Jensen didn’t need to give Misha direction, because Misha already knew what he wanted. He knew just how to lick up Jensen’s shaft, when to open his mouth wider swirling his tongue around the crown before taking him deep. Misha swallowed around Jensen, and Jensen wondered if that was what it felt like to give oneself head.

 _I haven’t been that flexible since college, babe, and even then, I could never deep throat myself. This is new to both of us…_

Somewhere, sometime, before Jensen came, before they were both completely consumed by taste and touch, pleasure and need, one of them—Jensen was going to bet Misha, but he wasn’t sure—had the good sense to head inside to the bedroom before they gave their neighbors (and the rest of Seattle) any more of a show. There was a time and place for exhibitionism, and this wasn’t it.

Jensen remembered Misha slipping off his pants, and getting Misha out of his boots and jeans and socks. Then Misha laid him down on the bed, almost cradling him, hands shaking—or maybe it was Jensen who was shaking, because although the sensations were starting to be easier to separate out if he wanted to, he still didn’t really know. Someone reached for the lube after that and then familiar fingers—Misha’s, probably—were swirling around his hole, massaging their way in. Jensen had fingered himself open plenty of times, but this was totally different. He was feeling the rewarding thrill of opening up a _partner_ , relaxing them, bringing pleasure, getting them ready for something more, the awe of watching more and more of your fingers, your hand, slip inside another’s welcoming body… at the same time he was feeling the stretch and pull of fingers inside him, massaging, scissoring, stretching him wider, pressing _just so_ against his prostate, making him writhe and beg and keen and plead. It was dizzying, disorienting, but not at all frightening. It was just so much _more_ stimulation than he’d ever had at once.

He was trying to reciprocate, massaging fingers against Misha’s scalp, tensing his muscles to squeeze and pull at Misha’s fingers, but he wasn’t entirely sure he was succeeding because his focus just kept getting sucked back to his ass and how open and alive and electrified it was. He knew whatever he was or wasn’t doing, Misha was completely onboard.

Then Misha was on top of him, his knees sliding up Misha’s arms, resting on his shoulders, ankles crossed behind Misha’s head, the prickle of Misha’s fresh haircut a counterpoint to the slick softness of Misha’s skin under his hands. Misha pushed in, his dick hard, the first stroke seemed to go on forever, filling Jensen as they gasped together _both_ feeling the tug and glide and fullness combined with oh-so-perfect-tight-warm-snug pleasure of Jensen’s body squeezing around Misha.

 _Oh god_ …

He wasn’t sure who thought it, or if they said it, because he stopped thinking. They were both so close, but both wanted to hold on, make it last, because it had never been like this before. This wasn’t sex or fucking or lovemaking this was— _bonding_ —Jensen’s mind supplied pulling with it the wealth of sci fi concepts—everything from movies to TV to even _fanfic_ , and Misha was laughing, sweet, endearing, accepting, but there was nothing but pleasure and love and complete understanding between them. Jensen could feel his hands moving over Misha’s back, Misha’s muscles tensing and stretching as he thrust, could feel how Misha felt when Jensen rocked up into each thrust, bringing them closer together. And then they were holding each other. Misha buried balls-deep in Jensen’s ass, Jensen’s hole a vise grip around him.

Their eyes locked. They breathed together. It was _amazing_ seeing each other and seeing everything through each other’s eyes. The mental and visual pictures seamlessly interwoven. No illusions, it was all real, more real than either of them had experienced before—they were together and apart, and joined as completely as two people could ever be. Every doubt Jensen had felt about Misha’s love or loyalty was erased, every fear he’d had gone. Every doubt Misha had—and Jensen hadn’t realized Misha _had_ doubts, fears that Jensen would never accept him or trust him again—vanished. They were so close, and suddenly the need to come was overwhelming. Jensen crossed his ankles tighter, clutching at Misha’s back as Misha tucked his arms tight around Jensen’s head and back, pulling him up, holding them closer together even as he fucked into Jensen hard and fast, their lips tangling again, tongues chasing, teeth nipping at lips.

Misha thrust in hard. They both _gasped_.

They were teetering on the brink, Jensen could feel his balls drawing up tight as the first rope of come pumped out of Misha, warming him deep inside, and then he was falling too, the orgasm dual orgasms hitting so hard, he lost his breath, his dick—untouched since they’d made it into the bedroom—pulsing between them. It felt like they came forever, wave after wave of pleasure and sensation until finally a sensation of peace, calm, and stillness washed over them.

Misha lowered Jensen down against the bed, sliding out, and grabbing Jensen’s sweatpants to do a hasty cleanup. He tugged up the covers and curled around Jensen, pressing his lips to Jensen’s ear, and murmuring aloud, “I love you.”

~~~

 _Jensen was floating, drifting in sleep, only he wasn’t_ Jensen _… He was_ Misha _or maybe Jensen and Misha, but not… because somehow Jensen’s subconscious had figured out this wasn’t entirely something Misha had seen. It was_ Misha’s _dream they were sharing, and much of it came from his memories, but parts of it were different. They came from someone else… Misha hadn’t understood how he had seen it at the time… had dismissed it as a nightmare based on the reports, his own observations from the brief recon they’d been able to do while collecting bodies. But it wasn’t… it was_ images _one of the other team-members had seen and in his desperation, sent to Misha._

 _The details played through Jensen’s mind as they had done before, Colonel Morgan’s team arriving on the Licinian homeworld with their escort. The initial pleasantries. Questions about how their journey was, the admission it wasn’t by ship. Queries about their escort’s wormhole technology. Morgan’s response…_

 _Jensen had never met the man who was Misha’s former CO, a man he respected, loved like a brother or surrogate father, a man he had mourned in silence and secret, but he could_ see _Morgan now plain as day as if he was standing in front of Jensen._

 _“Ah, you see, we travel by wormhole too, our technology makes for a very smooth ride,” Morgan said with a crooked smile. He wasn’t boastful, but trying to be reassuring. One of the other officers—Tomas, something—was already holding out his Earth-made WMD, and showing it around. One of the Licinian officers seemed to give it a double-take, but nothing more._

 _Then Morgan reached into his pocket and pulled out his own. It was Alien made, one of the artifacts… Sleek and silvery egg-shaped with little green lights embedded in it._

 _Misha had noticed, had been_ watching _carefully, he always did, and he had seen the Licinian leader’s eyes flash silver, his expression slip and stutter as he looked carefully at the device. Misha had_ known _there was something wrong, had_ sensed _the way the Leader had pulled back into himself, while the air seemed to change around him, not every Licinian noticed, but certain among them—his advisors, the people Misha had guessed were intelligence agents, one of the historians to whom they had been introduced—all stiffened just slightly, as if their_ auras _had shifted and changed._

 _The dream fast forwarded.  
Misha found the complex mazelike and disorienting. Every hallway looked the same save for different patterns carved into the walls, some of them flanked by tapestries in reds and yellows, some not. Misha had been confused because everything looked closed off—like the box canyons in “Halo”—people seemed to appear and disappear out of nowhere. Some of the Licinians were whispering. Some were smiling and talking of friendship and prosperity. Misha wasn’t a linguist, and the whispers he heard were in a Licinian tongue, but even without consulting any of the translator software, it was like he _knew _some of the words. Understood on a primal level he couldn’t comprehend—Earth… same planet… lost… LXEstoffee78… said destroyed… no contact… traitor… threat… He tried to brush it away, but every innocuous murmur seemed to press on his mind, he wasn’t entirely sure he was_ hearing _the words, or if the sense was just hearing alone…_

 _Misha’s eyes were drifting, darting around the Licinian complex, something—a feeling—itching at the back of his mind, a tickle on his brainstem. It seemed to tell him his very survival depended on getting_ out _, but this was a diplomatic mission and aside from some odd-ball questions about the location of Earth, the development of human society, and that funky look at Morgan’s WMD, everything was normal. Totally going according to plan. Yes, that in and of itself could be reason to be on edge, but this didn’t feel like one of those missions where everything went right until it blew up in your face… deep down Misha knew something had already gone horribly wrong._

 _In the back of his mind Jensen could distinguish the feelings of guilt and grief—some were Misha’s feelings at the time, some were regret and frustration coloring the memory dream in retrospect. But Jensen could tell Misha understood the thing that went wrong was nothing he could have controlled._

 _Misha had been glad he hadn’t pulled out his own WMD; somehow he’d known it would have been worse. Morgan’s was bad but his…_

 _And then their party had stopped suddenly in a crossroads of a sort where two hallways intersected. They were standing on red carpet, and there was an angular light fixture overhead… only it wasn’t a light fixture. Misha reacted on instinct—darting back and out along with the other Markers on his team—the diplomats they’d been escorting were nonMarkers and they didn’t react—he realized too late to save them from the plasma beams that shot down from the light fixture. Then there was no time to think. His P90 came up, finding targets and firing on reflex. There was no chance for negotiation. The Licinians were armed and they had already opened fire, plasma beams cutting across the space, catching the Terran delegation in the crossfire. Misha was hit, bleeding… it was agony to breathe, but it wasn’t too bad… and then Morgan was screaming at him to go. Get reinforcements. Carry word. He was farthest out, he had the least resistance and the best shot. It was a split-second assessment, a glance around the room from one heartbeat to the next, meeting Morgan’s eyes in understanding, a nod, and he was running._

 _The dream seemed to fast forward again or rewind… time was fuzzy and this wasn’t something Misha had seen, but something he thought he imagined. Feet running down a dead-end hallway. Ochre walls, high ceilings, a Licinian disappearing through a symbol in the wall in a wormhole after a flash of blue-white light. It had happened right before the Licinians had opened fire. The observer—Tomas, Jensen realized—had dismissed it; it was just a wormhole. Licinians had wormhole travel; they knew that. There was nothing particularly odd about it (even though his instincts said there was). But then later, when the Licinian had shot Morgan with a plasma rifle, when Tomas was on the floor, blood already pooling in his lungs, unable to move, feeling the unexpected warmth of the stone seeping into his rapidly cooling body, he had seen something. It was hazy around the edges, the image tinged in fear, and dripping in panic pheromones, but there it was, the same Licinian stepped_ through _another wall with the same symbol. Only it was like a wormhole aperture opened_ out of _the symbol and then the Licinian stepped through it. He turned, said to the_ Leader _in the same language, “Earth is LXEstofee78.” The Leader spoke one word, “Traitors!” as he raised his weapon, and the world went black._

 _The dream continued sometimes. Jensen had seen it when it did. It had the first time his mind had intercepted it, when he thought he’d just been_ imagining _Misha’s dream or the recollection he had from those events. It showed Misha’s return, the struggle to recover the bodies, the fear, the fighting, the Licinian ships lifting out of the atmosphere… But this time, Jensen drifted free, Misha’s unconscious mind continued in the dream, as Jensen’s pondered. He had seen something, what he needed—pieces of a puzzle he could understand in a new light… but_ how _… In the confines of his own unconscious mind he began to form a plan. When the plotting was as complete as he could make it, he drifted back into a dreamless sleep, his mind rejoined with Misha’s, quieting the shock of the nightmare, and soothing them both._

~~~

 **Chapter 10:**  
It was _quieter_ now. Jensen was in his own head, no longer overwhelmed with the duality of sensation, but he could _feel_ Misha, sense him there, a constant at his side. Jensen knew he just needed to reach out and he could touch Misha’s mind, like stretching a muscle. Misha could do the same. With time, they would probably both learn more, how to control it, maybe even shield each other’s thoughts, or at least protect the contents of their minds from outsiders. It was as if the wall between their minds had been torn down. They didn’t _have_ to exist as one big entity, but they could. They could also retreat back inside themselves until the hum of connection was almost undetectable or settle anywhere in between. There was a certain amount of play in the connection too… Jensen could be mostly in his own mind while Misha reached out and _vice versa_.

Jensen had _loved_ and been in awe of the connection they’d shared when they were completely sharing each other’s minds, but he was also relieved they could be like this. Not “normal,” whatever that was, but not so intertwined the sensory input was overwhelming.

After coming down from their mutual orgasm, they’d quickly drifted into sleep. When they awoke, everything seemed easier to manage, the ebb and flow of information between them was elastic and flexible, fluid in a way that felt easy and reassuring.

“Remember how I said I could sense you?” Jensen murmured. There were no audio recorders in the bedroom. Misha had checked, or rather he’d asked years ago and then checked regularly, and even ORDA seemed to think it was _reasonable_ to give a couple some privacy in their bedroom. Misha had never told Jensen that, but now he didn’t have to. Jensen knew. There was a camera, but it only captured a narrow sliver of the bed, near the foot, so as long as they didn’t move around (and didn’t look like they were doing anything suspicious), they could talk here.

Misha stretched behind him, wrapping his right arm tighter around Jensen’s body. They were lying on their sides, with Misha spooned up behind Jensen, his left arm propping up his head, his lips hovering near the back of Jensen’s neck. He pressed a chaste kiss to the side of Jensen’s neck, the mark the stun gun had left.

Jensen could feel how much it _bothered_ Misha to see that there, could even tell what it looked like to Misha, and all without trying… the thought was almost consuming Misha’s mind, so it was pretty hard to miss.

Jensen had been dozing even after Misha woke up, he was still _exhausted_ and wrung out from the kidnapping. But all the while he’d been asleep, he’d also been aware of Misha watching him. He wasn’t looking down on himself sleeping, although he knew he _could_ do that if he wanted, but he was aware. He was pretty sure he’d _always_ be aware of Misha… at least when they were on the same planet. The idea both thrilled and terrified him. He could always find Misha now. But then again, if Misha were to die… or if _he_ died… they’d know… Jensen didn’t want to imagine what that would feel like. And it raised questions he either didn’t look forward to testing or really could test. Would he be able to find Misha if he were unconscious as opposed to sleeping? Or in a coma? What if his heart stopped? Would Jensen know—would Misha just feel… gone, or would there be something that could lead Jensen to him, so he could revive him? They could test the going off planet stuff, they could test the distance of their separation, but Jensen had read and watched enough science fiction, and had a vivid enough imagination, to know all the ways that could be excruciatingly unpleasant. It didn’t matter that he’d lived thirty-four years, nine of them with Misha (seven of those married), without the connection. Like the WMD, it was something that once _found_ reshuffled his psychological paradigm, to the point where he didn’t know how to survive without it.

“You know, I could have really done okay without knowing just how much “Sentinel” fusion fan fiction _porn_ you read, I mean seriously… you’re a lawyer,” Misha grumbled.

Jensen twisted his neck and glared, “Fair use doctrine… you _know_ that. And I know all the obsessive analogies to Vulcan and Betazoid telepathic bonds was coming from you, so don’t even start.” Jensen tried to sound cranky, but there was no heat in it, and he finished with a yawn, earning a bemused and besotted smile from Misha.

“Yeah, that was me. It really does make me wonder though, if that’s what it was supposed to be like,” Misha admitted, nuzzling Jensen’s hair.

Jensen murmured, almost purring, because it felt so good. “Just—I don’t know how I’ll feel if you start calling me T’hy’la or something.”

“Geek,” Misha said affectionately.

They drifted into silence and stayed still a moment more, letting each other drift in their own thoughts, Misha’s right hand rhythmically gliding up and down Jensen’s stomach.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Jensen said, when a few minutes passed and Misha still hadn’t spoken.

“Yes, I remember,” he said at last, sounding... and that was _weird_ because no matter how Misha sounded, Jensen suddenly realized he knew how Misha _felt_ —worried, resigned, and a little hesitant.

“Why are you so… freaked?”

“Because, I know what you’re thinking, and even without following your thoughts all the way through, I know what I’m thinking, and considering you just got kidnapped, I’m pretty much flat-out terrified of how _desirable_ you’d be to the wrong people. Hell, I don’t know who I trust,” Misha admitted, his voice shaky.

“Well, it’s not just _me_ , you know,” Jensen added, arching his neck to look back at Misha.

Misha’s brow was furrowed in concentration and concern.

Jensen shifted, sliding one foot up and down Misha’s shins, distracting him, drawing him out of his head. When he had Misha’s attention, he said, “Well I think this is what it was all about. Or what it can be. As soon as I was aware of it, as soon as I knew there was something to interpret, I realized I could sense if someone was a Marker or not.”

“I—I’ve been feeling it too. It’s… easier the stronger someone’s expression is,” Misha admitted.

“Yeah,” Jensen agreed. “Well that—is this,” he wiggled his fingers too tired to actually gesture, but stressed enough he felt the need to talk with his hands, “before we’re really aware of it.”

“You think anyone, any Marker could do… that?” Misha marveled, but Jensen could feel the glimmer of doubt-embarrassment-regret-jealousy behind it.

“No not _that_ not like what we just had. I would be really surprised if that was the case…” He let his mind drift for a moment, “although I wouldn’t be surprised if all Marker-Marker couples are capable of something like that—maybe not _quite_ that intense, but maybe not.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know how much of it is regulated by the strength of expression, or if it’s the type or strength of the relationship or what. Just for example—I wouldn’t expect to have that kind of a connection with Lt. Hodge, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I can find him over long distances, sense his mood, exchange thoughts, maybe even see through his eyes, but in more … controlled doses, so to speak.”

Misha was quiet again, but Jensen could feel the questions in him building, so he waited to give Misha time to find the words. At last he said, “That could be really useful. It could be incredibly helpful in the field. If—”he let his voice trail off. Jensen could feel Misha swallowing hard, preparing himself, searching. “If we’d known how to do that on P’thyt? Or the Licinian homeworld? Maybe no one would have died—or fewer. Maybe it would have been different. Maybe we wouldn’t have had to make death notifications to so many families… make up excuses for why people who were supposedly scientists and researchers died and we couldn’t show their families the bodies. Maybe…”

“I know,” Jensen whispered on an exhale. Then, more steadily, “I know.” He patted gently at Misha’s arm. Maybe Misha would never have gotten hurt either, because Jensen would have _felt_ him. At least the time this past winter when Misha got hurt on _Earth_. “It could also be really, really dangerous…”

Misha squeezed him tighter, his knees bending and sliding between Jensen’s as he curled them closer together. “Is that what—do you think…”

“No,” Jensen started. “To all your questions.”

“You know,” Misha began, “this is going to be really, really weird, if you do that, because now I’m wondering what all my questions are and if you really understood them correctly, or if _I_ was aware of what I was thinking. ‘Cause it’s one thing to realize in the throes of passion—”

“The throes of passion? Seriously?” Jensen quipped, unable to resist lightening the mood.

“Yeah, I think that’s a pretty accurate term. Like I was saying,” he let his hand drift lower so it was petting just above Jensen’s groin where his penis lay soft and spent against his thigh. “It’s one thing to realize—in the throes of passion—that it really is okay to bareback because we’re suddenly both aware of our latest blood tests _and_ know without a doubt the only _risk_ factor either of us had to worry about was anything that might have been on all those needles the kidnappers stuck you with, we both know were completely sterilized according to every test human and alien medical technology can run.”

Jensen twisted just enough to look up at Misha, “That was pretty cool, wasn’t it?”

“It was. But this?” Misha stopped petting Jensen and pointed at his head before dropping his arm across Jensen’s chest.

Jensen gripped Misha’s hand tightly in both of his.

“This telling me answers to question I’m thinking, when I’m not sure what I’m thinking… that’s a little unsettling,” Misha admitted. “Yeah, we could slip back inside each other’s heads, but—”

“But that would be really exhausting, and we need to learn how to balance this with how we can function in public,” Jensen finished with a sigh. “Sorry—”

“I wasn’t upset.”

“I know, but sorry we can’t be however we want all the time,” he finished.

“‘S not your fault.”

“I know… but to answer your questions, no, this wasn’t the result of whatever they gave me to try to bump up neurotransmitter production. I don’t even know if this is regulated by the same neurotransmitter. No, whoever they were, and the rest of the PTBs at ORDA don’t realize we can do this—some of them _must_ suspect, but no one knows unless they’ve confirmed it some other way that doesn’t involve us,” Jensen answered. He paused, thinking, biting his lip, “but there is a ‘yes,’ as much as this could help us, it could also be really dangerous if anyone figures out Markers can communicate telepathically or sense each other over long distances or communicate sensory input to each other—every reason people already have to be jealous or suspicious or regard us as inhuman, it just gives them more ammunition, and it’s possible…”

“It’s possible, what?” Misha prodded.

“It’s possible we could hack into each other’s communications this way.”

“Excuse me?” Misha asked, his voice rising. Jensen could feel Misha’s pulse quicken, could sense the images and worst-case scenarios that were playing out inside his mind.

“Look if we figured this out, even if we don’t say anything, there’s a good chance someone else is going to figure it out…” _Maybe Jared if he really is working for whoever was behind my kidnapping_ , Jensen thought, but didn’t vocalize.

Misha flinched behind him anyway.

“We already figured out one of us can be inside the other’s head without us _both_ doing it at the same time… it’s entirely possible we could poke around in other people’s heads—I have no idea if it would just work for _Markers_ or if we could do it with nonMarkers too… and I don’t really want to try poking around—that’s mental rape as far as I’m concerned. But, like anything good, I figure it’s probably got some pretty scary offensive applications,” Jensen admitted.

“You’re starting to sound like one of us…” Misha mumbled.

Jensen blinked. “‘Cause like it or not, I am one of _us_ ,” he said with emphasis on the “us.” There was no denying it. He wasn’t just a lawyer thrust into a world full of sci fi military like a fish out of water. He had… instincts he couldn’t ignore, adaptability, training. Although he was still _new_ to ORDA, and wormhole travel, and interplanetary wars, he had the knowledge. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could just unlearn or forget—he was as much a part of this world as Misha, now. He bit his lip and continued more quietly. “The thing is even if _we_ don’t try that, someone else may and probably will.”

“We need to shield our thoughts—” Misha observed.

“Yes. I don’t know how much of a defense we have against it or if we’d be able to tell, and I don’t really think we can test it with each other—well we can, but it won’t be the same,” Jensen added.

“Why—oh,” Misha started. “You really do think we have some kind of bond?”

“Like I said, this between us—the mental _us_ that can exist as one person? I’m pretty sure that’s got to be a function of our relationship. We trust each other, we know what the other’s thinking already. Even if we try to block each other out, there’s no wall between our minds—it’s like—maybe a curtain or something. So if I try to block you and you come poking around, it’s not going to feel the same as say, someone banging on the wall. Or something—bad analogy…”

“I get the point,” Misha said, his sentence punctuated with a full-body shudder. “How do you know it wasn’t—”

“The result of the kidnappers’ ill-advised imitation of ‘Doll House’?” Jensen deadpanned.

“Well, I was going to say the drugs, but yeah.” Misha nodded.

“I talked to Katie a few days ago—she showed me the blood work they did and the brain chemistry workup on me. Helped me understand more about how I open intraplanetary wormholes and all that.”

Misha flinched at the mention of Katie’s name. “Jensen, she—”

“She’s human?” Jensen supplied.

“I didn’t mean it like that—we’re all hu—”

“No we’re not,” Jensen interrupted, his voice flat.

Misha moved so fast the jerking of his body rocked the bed and almost rolled Jensen off. Misha caught him, rolling Jensen half onto his back so Misha was looking down at him and neither of them had to crane their necks to see eye-to-eye. Because this was definitely a conversation that had to happen face-to-face, not as words spoken into the ether, said to the back of someone’s head. “Jen you—you’re sounding like—”

“One of them? NonMarkers at ORDA?” His voice rose questioningly, but it was purely rhetorical. “We are the same species in biological terms—we can _interbreed_ and produce viable offspring. But there’s enough genetic variation for us to be a different sub-species at the very least, and you _know_ they don’t think of us that way. They don’t trust us. Some of them are scared of us. Others want to use us. Some of them blame us for the war, others think we’re what _brought_ the war to Earth—and I don’t mean that Colonel Morgan’s team somehow pissed off the Licinians and now they want our blood—I mean us existing, that’s why they’re interested…”

“You don’t actually—”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, but like I said, Katie and I were talking. I think there might be an element of truth in that statement—” Images from the dream flashed before his eyes—a maze of ocher-colored corridors with slanted walls and high ceilings lit by flickering torchlight. A Licinian officer in a silvery uniform approaching a wall at the dead-end of a tunnel, pressing his palm to an intricate symbol of curved lines and spirals carved into the rock, the symbol flashing blue-white as the egg-shaped WMD he held in his hand glowed pink and the aperture opened, the Licinian stepping through… “I’m still working on that—Katie and I have a theory.”

Misha flinched again.

Jensen chose to ignore it for the time being. “We were talking about the _T. beta_ and what it was that let me open that wormhole without any training. One of the possibilities was that it was _instinct_ , a self-defense response. It got me thinking—maybe that was it. My first off-world mission, Hodge tried to reassure me by saying a lot of it was instinctual. It didn’t make me feel better at the time, but I knew there was some truth to it. We don’t have to _learn_ to operate a WMD the way we learn to drive a car. We get trained to recognize what certain things _are_ , what it feels like to connect with the closest extra-planetary target, for example, but our brain does a lot of the work subconsciously.”

“Okay…” Misha hedged when Jensen paused.

“You know what scared me the most while I was kidnapped? Not having my WMD.” Jensen had to pause again, reaching out with his newfound skill to connect with the WMD where it lay in the pocket of his sweatpants where they lay crumpled off the side of the bed, it’s presence a soothing reassurance. “I thought it was crazy, I mean I lived my whole life without any crazy sci fi wormhole maker. I didn’t even want anything to do with ORDA when I found out—but there I was, almost panicking because I had no way out. I hadn’t realized how much I relied on it, how comforting it was. But then it was gone, and all I could think of was how trapped I was. I had no way to get to you. No way out. And I never wanted to feel that way again. I—I _felt_ you the moment your team arrived. I felt everyone, but especially you, and I latched onto that… Now, now I know even if I don’t have my WMD, I’m not going to be cut off and isolated like that again.”

“I—I felt kind of the same way. I was so angry and frustrated that we couldn’t track you directly, I kept… searching for you, I guess, and when the compound came up on a list of possibles it was like I knew we had to try it first.” Misha admitted. He was projecting both fear and relief at his newfound understanding. “So… so you’re saying you think it was some sort of stress response—you developed the ability you needed, or the stress altered your brain chemistry in order to provide you with more options?” Misha asked.

Jensen nodded. “That, or I just figured out how to use what was already there. I could probably figure out what exactly if I had Katie run another analysis, but until and unless I know we have a totally secure way of keeping that information from the Generals or anyone else in ORDA, or unless we know exactly who we can trust, I can’t risk it. My curiosity will have to remain unsatisfied. As helpful as it would be to _us_ , the same information in the hands of any one of a number of other factions could bite us and every other Marker out there in the ass a million times over.” He sighed, “There is one thing I do need to talk to Katie about though…”

“What is it?” Misha asked, his thoughts brushing against Jensen’s but not probing for information.

“We’ve got a theory, and I need to confirm something before I act on it.” He looked Misha in the eye. “I hate this, but the longer you don’t know, the safer we all are. I’ll tell you as soon as we can do something about it.”

“I—look, if it’s that sensitive, do you have to involve her. Wouldn’t it be safer—” Misha protested.

“We need Katie’s help.”

Misha was visibly distressed. “Are you absolutely sure—”

“See,” Jensen began, his voice very matter-of-fact, “you don’t trust her because she’s _human_ and we’re not. They, and I’m including ORDA leadership and some of the Generals in that, think about us, look at us, and act towards us as if we’re aliens. Because they don’t trust us,” Jensen said firmly.

Misha, brushed his fingers over Jensen’s forehead. “Don’t—don’t be ridiculous. It’s not that I don’t trust Katie. She’s on my team. I trust her with my life; I just don’t know if I can protect her. And I don’t have any misconceptions about what some factions—from within ORDA and outside—are willing to do to try to get information they want. What you’re talking about could affect every single—”

“Every single _Marker_. If I had been talking to Lt. Hodge about this instead of Katie, you’d be worried, but your fear wouldn’t be as intense. You _trust_ Hodge on a level you don’t trust Katie because any information about _Markers_ affects him too. You _trust_ Katie, but you know what they will do to nonMarkers. She’s valuable, but not in the same way. They could kill her or lock her up and throw away the key the way they did with Ms Friedman’s brother. They can threaten her family, hold her life over her head, and when it comes down to it, she has a _choice_ , and you can’t blame her for choosing to save herself.” The words felt hard, cold, clinical as he spoke them, but Misha needed to hear them, needed to have the truth brought out, not flitting around in his mind where he could hide from it. Jensen closed his eyes because it hurt too much to see the devastation and _guilt_ in Misha’s face.

Misha’s thumb traced Jensen’s cheekbone. “Jensen—”

“She wouldn’t, you know.” Jensen forced himself to open his eyes and look at Misha. He couldn’t hide either. “Katie won’t try to save herself it comes down to it. She knows it won’t actually work, and she resents them for _using_ people this way. See, she understands. She realizes it doesn’t matter what the _biology_ says; it doesn’t matter how alike we are if someone is convinced we’re different. We _say_ Marker and nonMarker, like we’re talking about something innocuous, a choice—smokers and nonsmokers, drinkers and nondrinkers, runners and non-runners—but what we mean, what we understand is Markers and Humans. That distinction may be a fallacy, but as long as people believe it and believe in it, it’s the reality we have to deal with. We can scream about our humanity until we’re blue in the face, and it’s not going to make a damn bit of difference about how other people act towards us, or whether they see us as a threat. The truth is we _are_ different. When they took me—”

“You don’t have to—” Misha tried to cut him off.  
Jensen plowed on anyway. This was his demon to face. “When they took me… They dumped me off world on a planet where a _human_ couldn’t survive. It hurt, my lungs burned and I felt like someone had parked a cement truck on my chest, but I was okay, and as unpleasant as it was, I could have stayed there a lot longer.” He let his eyes focus on a point on Misha’s forehead, where it was easier to speak without seeing every flicker of emotion that he already felt _radiating_ from Misha echoed in his eyes as well.

“When they took me back to earth, I woke up on a concrete floor in a room kept so cold I _should have died_ from hypothermia, or at least have lapsed into a coma. I heard them talking about it. But I didn’t die because I’m a Marker. They were thrilled and disgusted with my tolerances like I was a lab rat. You had the same training I did. You know what they tell us. How we might have to make the choice to go someplace _humans_ can’t survive. That kind of power, being told to make that call? It makes me sick. It makes you sick. It scares the shit out of people like Katie, and it gives some people all the justification they need to see us as _other_. Alien. Inhuman. Unworthy of the same rights and protections.”

Tears were pooling in Misha’s eyes, and he was clutching the bed sheet on the far side of Jensen’s bed with a death grip. “God—it—” He broke off into hysterical laughter. “You—it just sounds like something out of every science fiction movie and comic book ever made—what are we? Mutants? X-men?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Jensen admitted. “The analogy isn’t inapt, except we’re different because of alien genetic engineering, not just ordinary evolution. But yeah.”

Misha punched the pillow in frustration. “How. Is this. My life?” He asked between punches.

Jensen smiled, “I could quote Arthur C. Clarke or Isaac Asimov, but that would just piss you off. Suffice it to say, looks like the sci fi authors speculation about how people would react—they got it right.”

“Argh,” Misha grumbled, as he let his head flop down against Jensen’s.

“On the bright side, I think I can find us now—find more Markers, I mean,” Jensen whispered into Misha’s ear and smiled. “And more tech—WMDs, artifacts, even—”

Misha popped up again, bringing his fingers to Jensen’s lips, quieting him. The edge of fear was still present in his expression, but there was a wave of giddiness overriding it now. “Don’t say it… I know what you mean, and it’s—if I don’t hear the words, it will be easier to deny even if I can see the thought in your mind,” Misha said solemnly. He stilled for a moment then chuckled.

“What?” Jensen asked, even though he had a better-than-good idea of the source of Misha’s amusement.

“You—you just told me you can make like Professor X!” Misha giggled.

Jensen’s smile spread into a grin—okay, this, right now? Was not so bad; it was a pretty cool ability even with all the downsides. “And I don’t even need a big, round, room, to do it,” he quipped.

~~~

 **Chapter 11:**  
Being able to search out and _find_ other alien-relate entities and objects—be they Markers, WMDs, source of nanolumes, or something else—wasn’t a skill Jensen was readily willing to share, especially not so soon after his kidnapping, but understanding he had _control_ over what had heretofore been a vague _attraction_ or proximity alert—was very useful, and incredibly reassuring. Before being in the same room with other Markers or an alien artifact produced a sensation like the _Highlander’s_ immortal “buzz,” to the power of -1. Now he could seek things out, track and find people, wormhole, nanolumes, in a way ORDA Command didn’t think was possible.

A few days later, Jensen had an idea. While researching into AB15ers’ archives for what they knew about the Licinians, he came across a symbol it was described in two contexts—in the alleged eyewitness account of a child from the long-lost Phvanzi colony of Sbelt’ahe and in accounts of visitors to the Licinian homeworld who had seen Licinians step up to a mark in the wall and hold their WMD to it, and then open a wormhole. According to some the Licinians used these keys to transit to heavily shielded and guarded locations—the symbol somehow interfaced with the WMD to grant them safe passage and ensure the wormhole opened to precisely the right location.

The symbols were identical to those he’d seen in Misha’s dream… the same symbol Tomas had seen in the Licinian Palace, that had served as some sort of—portal. There was something about it. It wasn’t just that the Licinians had opened a wormhole… every time, they touched the WMD to the symbol… it glowed, and then stepped through. But it didn’t stop there. He was pretty sure he’d seen pictures of the symbol in two other mission files—the one where Misha had been exposed to the nanolumes and another from a recent Licinian raid. The rock symbol had been destroyed by a chance hit from an RPG, and the Licinians had responded with vicious brutality. The symbols all seemed to be carved into solid rock, maybe even those in the Licinian Palace… yet a wormhole could open through them… It made sense, but didn’t. Jensen knew he was missing something. The question was what? He had an idea, but he needed an assistant, someone who could afford to take the risk testing his theory would require.

~~~

Fwhump! The wormhole snapped shut behind Jensen and Katie as suddenly as the scenery changed.

 _Not my smoothest landing ever_ , Jensen thought as a twinge of nausea flooded through his system. He was nervous. Very, very nervous. Misha and Kane had both warned him, and apparently they really hadn’t been kidding: mental state seemed to have as much impact on the WMDs as did concentration, at least insofar as the smoothness of the ride went. He glanced around, his eyes darting from side to side taking in the surroundings: rock, loose rocks, scrubby trees, strangely familiar markings... at least it seemed he’d come to the right place. He breathed a sigh of relief.

It was only then he became aware of Katie’s death-grip on his wrist, her fingers white with the strength of it. Fear of being abandoned—stranded—and acknowledgment she was dependent upon him for getting back, not fear at the actual travel, he realized.

Katie’s eyes were wide, a little shocked, but also in awe. “We’re still on Earth?” she asked, her tone saying it really wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” he answered a little weakly. He followed Katie’s line of sight and took in the same strange rocks. “I’m pretty sure that’s not weathering.”

“No.” Her voice echoed. “I can’t even imagine a natural phenomenon that could cause cross-hatch striations of varied, but precise depths like that.” She took a few steps toward the rock, fingers of her left hand outstretched while those of her right still clung to Jensen’s wrist. “Katie,” he cautioned, his tone abrupt enough that she flinched and froze, her hand hovering just inches from the rock face. _Idiot!_ Jensen cursed himself. That was exactly the kind of inconsiderate, unyielding, devaluing tone ORDAs marker-elitists used with non-markers, especially lab researchers like Katie. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” she replied, drawing back further, but still peering intently at the strange pattern.

“No, it isn’t,” he said, squeezing her shoulder with his free hand.

Katie whipped her head around and skewered Jensen with a perplexed expression.

“I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t want— I’m not like— Hrmmfph!” he grunted in frustration. “Look, I’m not trying to be like them. It’s just that that rock? It’s crawling with nanolumes and I thought you should _know_ , should be able to make a knowing and intelligent choice before you touch it, is all.”

Katie just stared at him blankly for a moment before her eyes widened and her face broke into a huge grin. “That’s lawyer humor, isn’t it? The knowing and intelligent thing.” She laughed.

Jensen blushed and hung his head, embarrassed at his own geekiness. “Um, yeah, I guess it is—but I still meant it. I’m not going to order you not to touch the wall—or to touch it. That’s your choice. If you wanna put gloves on or need me to do something, just say it. But if you wanna—” he inclined his head at the rock meaningfully. “I won’t stop you. I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing before you do it.”

“‘Knowingly infecting oneself with controlled genetic material as defined in title IV, section 42.010, is a court-martialable offense subject to life imprisonment, death, or any other proportionate sentence as determined by a special panel convened by designation of the ORDA governing council.’ Title 9A OCRCMJ Section 37.100,” Katie quoted, her expression forlorn, her hand again outstretched, but not touching the rock.

Jensen couldn’t keep the half-bitter smile from spreading across his face. “D’you really think ORDA command is going to kill a marker?” he asked rhetorically.

Katie smiled and shook her head, only for her smile to falter. “Doesn’t mean they won’t use me for tests. Imprison me in a lab. Dictate what I do for the rest of my life,” Katie said ruefully.

“What, and you think they can’t—won’t—do that now?” Jensen asked incredulously.

Katie frowned and crossed her arms, removing her hand from Jensen’s wrist for the first time since they’d stepped out of the wormhole. “Of course they’d do that now. It’s not like I can ever _leave_ this job, not really. Although they’re not likely to use me as a lab rat; they’d probably just—”

“Kill you,” Jensen finished for her. “Which, no matter what the regs say, they’re not gonna do to a Marker. We’re all stuck. At least this way,” Jensen shrugged, “we’ve got some leverage.” He crossed his arms, mirroring Katie’s pose. “Besides, it’s not like I showed you exactly where the nanolumes are.”

This time Katie’s grin stuck. She turned back to the rock face, only to pause again. “Will it hurt, or feel... weird?”

Jensen took two steps closer, peering over Katie’s shoulder at the pattern. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a few beats of silence. “I was born this way, after all. And Misha—he was already a marker when he was infected. From what he said, there was nothing really dramatic or noticeable, but then again, he didn’t know he was a marker before, and he was kind of distracted at the time. You’d have to ask someone like Kane or J—Jared,” Jensen’s voice broke a little when he said his friend’s name. He swallowed hard and mentally pushed down the rising surge of confused, conflicted emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

If Katie noticed, she didn’t say anything, but given how she was still poised with her hand hovering above the markings, seemingly transfixed, he doubted she’d noticed. “Will they detect it right away?” She asked, turning her face towards Jensen. She blinked, and rolled her eyes, apparently picking up on the potential irony that she—a medical doctor and geneticist—would be asking _Jensen_ that. “I mean obviously, when I have my next physical or if I get assigned to a mission, it will show up unless I figure out how to tamper with the equipment and intercept my lab results. But that could be months. I just had my physical, if I don’t go on any field assignments it’ll be almost 6 months before I have another. But what I don’t know is whether other markers will be able to sense me,” she explained.

“Oh,” Jensen realized feeling a bit dense. “Well—it’s... Okay, I’ll be able to detect you. The same goes for Misha and _maybe_ Kane. We can all ‘sense’ each other, but conscious awareness of it is something that, as you know, has to be trained...”

“And depends to a certain extent on an individual’s specific genetic inheritance,” Katie finished. “It’s probably also affected by an individual’s _human_ DNA, but we haven’t gotten to the point of quantifying that.”

“Makes sense,” Jensen acknowledged.

“Yeah, so, avoid people who’ve been training or who have really strong manifestations, got it,” Katie murmured.

“You—you can trust Misha,” Jensen said softly, surprised at how easily the reassurance came and how genuinely and sincerely he believed it. The doubts and sense of betrayal he’d felt before had evaporated, and in their place lay only understanding.

“Yeah,” Katie agreed. “If I touch a lot—are markers with a more complete or robust genetic presentation—”

“Easier to sense?” Jensen guessed. “Yeah.” He let the presence of the nanolumes wash over them. He could see them all, even though they weren’t yet glowing, spread across the textured surface as if it was the _agar agar_ for their Petri dish. “And we’ll probably want to do something about passive sensor logging if you want to avoid detection long term,” he added.

“Got it.” Katie had turned her attention back to the rock wall. Her breath hitched and stuttered for a moment, and then she pressed her palm to it, dragging it across the patterned striations in a quick, but determined and purposeful, swipe.

The rock lit up beneath her touch, nanolumes glowing green-blue all around the path her hand had taken.

“Holy shit. You weren’t kidding,” she breathed. She looked down at her hand expectantly, just watching a few flashes of green blink out and vanish. “Well I don’t feel any different _yet_ , but then again, I shouldn’t. These things take time.” Her attention turned back to the rock. “The governing council doesn’t know about this place.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No.” Jensen leaned closer his own fingertips pressing to the stone between the bioluminescent spots. There was no sense in _wasting_ them. “I wish we had sample containers with us. But I didn’t know we’d find this—much—here.”

“Well I say the council will send someone back to collect,” Katie cocked her head towards Jensen, “but this isn’t exactly a sanctioned mission and there’s no way to alert them without laying all our cards on the table.”

“I’m not really sure I want them to know about this, not yet,” Jensen murmured.

Katie returned to staring at the parts of the rock that weren’t glowing. “Now what was it that drew you here?”

Jensen was impressed—as always—at how fast Katie could change. Her mood, demeanor, focus—she attuned each to the situation at hand, sometimes turning on a dime to do so. It brought a faint upturn at the corners of his lips despite the seriousness of his purpose.

“These aren’t natural, right?” he said indicating the rock pattern.

“You’re asking me?” Katie said in incredulity. “I told you before there’s no natural phenomenon I know of that could cause these markings. Then again, I’m a geneticist, not a geologist. You’ve got a background in environmental science, so you’ve got a better handle on this than I do.”

“Rhetorical question,” Jensen said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He’d done his homework before dragging Katie out here. “I also got the anthro folks to confirm there’s no known or documented tribes or cultures that made anything that looks remotely like this,” Jensen explained.

Katie shot him a quizzical expression. “But you didn’t know this was here? I mean, you’d never been here before?”

“Not exactly. But I remembered this symbol, or something almost identical, from photos attached to the mission reports...” Jensen trailed off.

“What mission reports?” Katie asked.

Jensen sucked in a deep breath and bit his lip. “From when Misha was infected, from when Jared was infected, from two different Licinian incursions, and...” Jensen closed his eyes, the image snapping into crystal clarity. It was the same—not exactly; it was a slightly different pattern—but clearly made with the same tool or device. “And... Misha saw something very similar. Made the same way. When he was on the Licinian homeworld just before Col. Morgan was murdered… and also in a dream he has, based on images some of his teammates saw before they died. They, uh, transferred to Misha.” He turned, eyes still closed, giving in, relaxing into the pulse of connection that reached out for him. _Use the Force, Jensen,_ a voice reminiscent of Alec Guinness urged at the back of his mind. He could _feel_ the nanolumes, the rock—there was something about the patterned section itself and something _deeper_ , reaching far beneath the surface that answered his mind and felt alien to him, like him. If he relaxed into it enough, he could even feel Katie, she was just a flicker on the edge of his awareness, but she was there and growing stronger by the second.

There was definitely something deeper here. And important and... dangerous. It tickled on the edge of his awareness, burning more and more the longer he tried to _feel_ it. “Misha—” he started again, “he had trouble trusting you before because you were human.” Jensen gave her a wan smile. “I think he was afraid to believe you would refuse to save yourself—we talked, and he got comfortable with it. Now you’re like us, and you’re worried because Misha’s in command. All I’m trying to say is we can trust him. We tell him what we can, protect him from the rest until we’re ready, and he’ll help us.”

He cocked his head toward the rock. “There’s definitely something under there. Deep underground.”

Katie pressed her hand to the rock again. “It’s—” her eyes seemed to cross and straighten, as she wobbled on her feet. “Whoa… I’m not quite used to this yet. It feels like my mind’s _expanding_ out like a bubble. Only down there, something’s answering back. It’s not… alive, not sentient, but it’s like us somehow. It feels…” She winced, pulling her hand back abruptly. “It feels evil.”

“It feels Licinian.” Jensen’s tone was absent, flat, as he spoke. He reached out again, pressing his right hand to the carved rock, the WMD cradled in his palm. When the WMD made contact with the rock and his hand, the symbol glowed blue-white, just like it had in the dream. He could feel it, a passage way beckoning to him. It wanted to pull him inside, but he could also feel the danger. One degree off with the wormhole and he’d—pop out of the wormhole into solid rock, like TNG’s _Pegasus_ and it’s faulty cloaking device. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand back. Gasping when it hurt to break the connection, the WMD flaring hot in his palm before returning to normal.

“It wanted you to come inside—” Katie said, perplexed, like she couldn’t believe what she was sensing.

“Safety mechanism?” Jensen suggested.

Katie cocked her head to the side. “You think this is what they’re after?”

“Part of it; I think they used something like this to destroy the Phvanzi colony,” Jensen admitted, not willing to say more of what he’d already guessed.

It makes sense. If this is a _key_ to open a portal, to your top-secret, world-destroying lab, you wouldn’t want to let just anyone in. Sure, they’re already filtering out other species, but this way, it pulls you in, makes you _want_ to go inside—like the Sirens… it’s calling out hoping to crush us into the rocks, but if we know the route inside, the correct destination, then the song won’t matter—it’s like wax in our ears!” She said giddily, bouncing a little on her feet.

“I get what you’re saying, but—” he chuckled, his face breaking into a huge grin.

“I totally did take that analogy too far,” Katie admitted. “So, what now?” She asked.

“We get Misha’s help… and we track more Licinians.”

~~~

It didn’t seem to matter how much Jensen figured out, how hard he worked, or how tirelessly they all plotted and struggled. They’d worked through list after list of every possible idea... ORDA had contacted the Fropali, at last, and had confirmation the intergalactic peace keepers were on their way, but even travelling at their fastest speed, the Fropali fleet wasn’t going to get there in time. Worse, the Licinian government wasn’t responding to inquiries or diplomatic overtures from the Fropali or anyone else for that matter.

The investigation into Jensen’s kidnapping had ground to a halt, dead end after dead end getting leaving them with more questions than answers. Jensen still couldn’t shake his suspicion of Jared, and it was straining their relationship. Jensen had started avoiding Jared at lunch, eating in the underground cafeteria more often than not because there was less of a chance of running into Jared there. Jensen stopped suggesting movie nights and gaming sessions too, and he turned Jared down every time he brought one up, Jensen’s excuses becoming flimsier and flimsier in the process.

Less time socializing, and the constant need for an excuse, did have some benefits. He and Katie were fitting in daily time in her lab, in the surveillance-free Men’s bathroom, and anywhere else they could find with a modicum of privacy. Jensen had finally finished his own translation on the account of the Phvanzi refugee too. He had answers, just not the ones he wanted.

Of course more time spent working meant less time with Misha too. Misha, being Jared’s team leader, also had to deal with Jared’s reaction to Jensen’s avoidance. “Jared thinks you’re mad at him because he didn’t participate in the rescue and took your place on the MZ37 mission instead,” Misha confided, after begging Jensen to come home.

“I just—not coming on the rescue mission didn’t help, you know. If he was the leak he would have behaved exactly like he did,” Jensen protested, slumping in the hard plastic chair he’d dragged from the cafeteria into the off-the-grid bathroom. Sitting on the sink or a toilet seat just didn’t cut it when he was spending up to an hour at a time in there doing research—and more around shift changes when his absence from the video feeds wasn’t so readily noticeable.

“Jen, we haven’t found any evidence connecting him with the leak. The only thing we have is the name one of your kidnappers dropped—”

“I saw him right before they stunned me—” Jensen protested.

“Walking the other way,” Misha interjected. “You said yourself he wouldn’t have seen them take you.” Misha let out an exasperated sigh, his forehead slamming against the doorjamb, hard. He punched the closed bathroom door three times in frustration before turning back to Jensen—his movements were half-hearted and full of anxiety, not anger. “I’m starting to suspect someone intentionally framed Jared. Used his name, fed it to the nonMarkers involved in the kidnapping, maybe even asked them to mention it in your presence—”

“Isn’t that a bit—contrived?” Jensen retorted.

“Maybe, but come on Jen, we’ve looked and researched, and searched. There’s nothing tying Jared to this except the name and a little bit of circumstantial timing. If someone wanted to throw us off their trail, don’t you think this would be a pretty good way? Rile you up? Get you suspecting your best friend of betraying you, betraying—all of us—” and though he didn’t say it, Jensen could hear Misha’s thoughts _our people_ , because ever since the kidnapping, they’d both started thinking of Markers that way, “—and give us just enough doubt that we never catch the person actually responsible?”

“It’s… possible,” Jensen conceded. “I just can’t shake the feeling—the doubt. Every time I think of Jared now, I think of that guy, the one I killed? He kept talking about me like I was a thing. They used our physiology against me so I was _helpless_ and isolated and I wasn’t even restrained half the time.”

“You were doing a pretty good job of escaping when I got there, despite the drugs they pumped into you,” Misha said fondly.

“Yeah, thanks to the distraction you provided. The doctor—she was a Marker, though I’m guessing first generation if their attitudes are anything to go by—she was going to biopsy my _brain_ with me still half-conscious.” Jensen gulped around the bile rising in his throat. “How can I forget? How can I—go back to the way things were as long as there’s any doubt!?”

“Babe, I’ve talked to Jared, and all I can sense from him is confusion, hurt, and guilt—but _not_ the kind of guilt you get from betraying your best friend, guilt for not being there for you when you needed him,” Misha pleaded. “I know my connection with him isn’t as advanced as ours is—Jared and I aren’t _partners_ we’re not in each other’s heads, but I can still sense his emotions, and there’s no hatred or animosity for Markers there. Just a whole lot of desperation and determination to solve this mess we’re in.”

“I can’t—I can’t feel anything when I’m with Jared,” Jensen admitted. “It’s like my own emotions overpower everything, cloud my… vision… so I can’t sense anything else.”

Progress was slow on all fronts. Every day the Licinian fleet moved closer. Every day there were more attacks. Fifteen nonMarkers kidnapped and taken offworld, killed on inhospitable planets in one day. Twenty the next. People were starting to notice. Reports of mysterious crime sprees, _“invisible”_ attackers, and rumors of paranormal events kept rolling in, gaining traction on major news networks.

And then there were the other events—an ice sheet collapsed in Antarctica, another volcanic eruption in Iceland, rapid glacial melting across Northern Canada, and a 6.0 Earthquake in New York City with seismologists fearing a much bigger quake was to come. It sounded like something out of an apocalyptic tale, and of course the usual religious groups were seeing omens and portents in the planet’s sudden instability. Of course Jensen and Katie saw something entirely different. They were tracking wormholes now, reaching out with their senses to find the alien artifacts… looking for _keys_ … and each time the climactic and seismographic events coincided.

The mood at ORDA headquarters was tense. All cover work was suspended—Misha no longer even _pretended_ to go in to Enviropreserve—neither did Jared from what Jensen could tell. Jensen had no clue how the ORDA PR machine was managing _that_ , but he wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t and were just hoping they could either solve the current crisis before anyone caught on or—or if they didn’t, well, blown covers wouldn’t really be a problem anymore.

The closer the Licinian fleet got, the more _doomed_ Jensen felt, and while it was logical, the way he was feeling it… wasn’t. “I’m not even sure what we’re trying to protect, anymore,” he grumbled to Misha on one of the rare nights they actually got to sleep, together in their own bed. “I mean, we’re supposed to be saving a world we’re not even a part of.”

“I think you’re being a little melodramatic,” Misha observed around a yawn. “We interact, we’re a part…” They were lying curled together on the bed, too exhausted to do more than hold each other.

His words stuck in Jensen’s mind, only rather than being a _part_ of the world, Jensen realized they were _apart_ … separate from the rest of the world.

“Tell me, Misha? When was the last time you even went to a grocery store, or a gas station, a park, maybe a restaurant?” Jensen rolled flipping onto his back, trying to get more comfortable. Misha had been borrowing cars from ORDA’s motor pool since the accident—and yeah, Jensen was sometimes surprised at how _normal_ the organization could be—so even the happy constant of pumping gas was a distant memory.

Misha followed him, putting his head on Jensen’s chest so Jensen could wrap his arm around him. “Humpf,” Misha grunted. He was quiet for a long moment.

Jensen was starting to wonder if Misha had fallen asleep—only he could sense bits and pieces and glimmers of thought bleeding through from Misha’s mind—but he could tell Misha was still thinking.

“March 28,” he said sleepily at last. “You were stuck in training; we got done with a mission twenty-four hours early. Jared demanded I take the team out for lunch and we went to Cedars on Brooklyn… drank so much chai, I was almost sick. Oh—ohh, wait,” He held up a finger in protest. “Last month… July? August? We were in… Toledo following up on a kidnapping. I went into a 7-11 and a Subway to question witnesses,” Misha added, sounding very pleased with himself.

“You know, that really doesn’t count—when we interact like that for work,” Jensen retorted. “Huh, let me see, for me… it was the day of the accident. I went for a run that morning and stopped at Starbucks. That was the last time I did anything _normal_.”

“We’re not—normal, you know.” Misha nuzzled his head into Jensen’s chest. “We are, however extremely tired, and need to sleep.”

“That’s my point, babe,” Jensen said, slipping his fingers underneath Misha’s shirt, tracing over old scars—the steady expansion of Misha’s ribs with each breath a reminder of life in the face of adversity, survival over injury. “ORDA’s supposed to save this world? We don’t even live in it. Something happens—we don’t _have_ to stay. Sure, they might order us to, but there’s nothing stopping you or me from just up and leaving. How are we supposed to fight for this world if they won’t let us be a part of it?”

“I—I don’t know,” Misha answered honestly.

Jensen looked down at him, tucking his arms tighter around Misha—it wasn’t often he was the one doing the holding, Misha usually latched on like a needy limpet—but he cherished it when he was. “There’s something I’ve gotta do tomorrow. Just, cover for me, if anyone notices I’m missing.”

“You know this isn’t college, I can’t just tell the professor you’re at home with food poisoning. Our bosses have ways and means of verifying stories.” Misha sounded—and felt—amused, not upset, so Jensen smiled.

“Just humor me, will you?”

~~~

 **Chapter 12:**  
Jensen felt the room shift and ripple around him as he exited the wormhole. His vision cleared, and he blinked in the early afternoon sunlight that was streaming in through the windows. The air shifted, seemed to shimmer, around him, papers flapping in the sudden breeze. He knew the “wind” was displacement currents caused by matter exiting the wormhole, but he couldn’t stop his mind from comparing it to the visual and sound effects from a dozen or so of his favorite sci fi movies. Huh, maybe Batman and Superman really did make rustling noises and breeze when they came and went.

As he smiled to himself with the thought, reality caught up to him. It was only a second’s break in composure, but in other circumstances, it could easily have meant death for him, for Misha, for Ja— _Right... focus on the task at hand._ He pushed the chastising voice away and focused on his mission. He also ignored the shocked, nauseated voice at the back of his mind that wanted to be horrified at the militarization of his personality. He wasn’t surprised at how easy it was. After all, this? _This_ was about survival. Also, wormhole travel was natural to him. It was in his blood.

He looked around.

Jensen was standing in the strip of empty space in HLD Legal Aid’s conference room, between the conference table and its eclectic assortment of chairs and the row of windows that overlooked The Ave. His back was to the windows and he was facing the table, looking out through the room’s fishbowl-style windows onto the office proper. He could see the intake desk—currently empty probably because it was late August and they were in the lull between quarters at the UW and too early in the Semester at Seattle U for students to be settled into their schedules and volunteering. He could see the waiting area—also empty as it wasn’t a clinic day, so only those clients with pre-scheduled appointments would be in the office—and off to the other side, closer to the conference room, was his old office, Alona’s was across from it, Valerie’s next to hers, and behind the awkward jog formed by the intake desk was the spare office. They’d always used it for storing spare office supplies, donated monitors, and a hodge-podge of other odds and ends. Only these days it clearly wasn’t a spare office. There was a nameplate on the door along with some artwork that looked like it might have been done by a child and a newspaper clipping of some sort.

Jensen’s heart panged and clenched, as his stomach gave an involuntary flip. Of course, they’d had to bring in someone to replace him. Even if he wasn’t supposed to be gone forever, even if he might actually get to come back, they couldn’t get by with only two lawyers. That they were using the spare office suggested his office was still there, just like he’d left it over six months ago, waiting for him to come back. His fingers twitched and he ached with the desire to reach out and touch his old life—the picture of him and Misha on his desk, his framed diplomas and bar certificate, the copies of his successful motions and pleadings and letters tacked up on the wall alongside the judge’s orders and opposing parties’ responses showing his clients had won. He’d always thought it was awkward and a bit silly, but Alona had insisted, so he’d complied. He hadn’t—and still didn’t—needed that kind of external motivation or gratification to stay focused. He did the work because he could and because he _would have_ been in the position of any number of his clients if a few things had gone differently in his life. He used to think he still could find himself in such a position—now he knew that there were other, perhaps even more sinister options waiting for him, and it wasn’t so much an _if_ as a _when_.

Jensen shook himself. He couldn’t go traipsing down memory lane or looting contents from his office. He wasn’t here. No one could ever know, not officially, anyway, and the more time he spent gawking, the more he ran the risk of discovery. He walked towards the side wall farthest from the conference room’s door. It took him out of the easiest line of sight from the waiting area and the new attorney’s office. The support pillars that studded the large, open inter work area that made up the core of the office would block him from view. It was a risk coming here during business hours, but it was the only time he could be guaranteed Alona would be here and it was infinitely safer than going to Alona’s home. He hadn’t spent anywhere near as much time there as he had at the office, and for the kind of precision work it took to open an intraplanetary wormhole to open to such tight parameters, he needed someplace he knew innately. Otherwise he’d either get caught or damage himself or his destination in the process. Besides he didn’t want to invade Nikki and Alona’s privacy like that. He just hoped Alona’s habits hadn’t changed in the last 6 months.

He glanced back. Her door was open and the light was on, which meant she was at her desk. Jensen slipped the WMD into the side pocket of the jacket of his field duty uniform before swiftly divesting himself of the garment. He folded it over his arm making sure his rank and other insignia was hidden and the WMD was secure. The Earth-made WMDs looked alien enough. Jensen’s looked like it had been snagged off the set of Stargate or Star Trek. It would be impossible to explain. It was risky enough wearing his uniform in public, but there’d been no other way to pull this off.

He stepped further into the shadows and took a deep breath, steadying himself. He slid his right hand into the hidden pocket in his pants and closed his fingers around the vial, palming it. The vial reminded him of a small, flat, hinged pill case, only made out of the polymer-coated titanium that was nonreactive with the nanolumes.

His internal clock told him he’d been in the office for over a minute already. No more time to waste. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and thumped one of the chairs forward onto the floor.

For a moment, nothing happened, and he started to panic maybe Alona wasn’t as paranoid and hyper aware as she used to be. But before he could seriously consider whether he should try thumping the chair again or try a different tack, a shadow moved in Alona’s doorway, followed seconds later by Alona herself. She looked first to the front of the office, leaning out of her doorway and craning her neck at an awkward angle, one hand gripping the doorframe for support, as she peered towards the entry way—sometimes people got stuck coming out of the building’s ancient retrofitted elevator after all, and that tended to make noise.

Jensen was unprepared for the relief that washed over him when he saw her standing there. Whole. Alive. Unmarked. In the flesh. Not a memory or a concept or a disembodied voice on the other end of the phone. Want and loss—for his old life, for the man he used to be (or at least thought he was)—flooded through him, and Jensen gave out an involuntary gasp.

Alona immediately turned, jerking around and peering, carefully tiptoeing towards the conference room.

 _Well, that got her attention._ Even without his uniform jacket, Jensen was dressed all in black and his position in the corner of the conference room that served as the library had him cast in shadow and backlit if he moved towards the door.

“Hello?” Alona called, her voice pitched in speaking tones. “Hi, is someone back here?” She crossed the intern workspace towards the conference room. When she was a few steps from the doorway her pace quickened. “Hi, do you have an appointment? Our waiting room is out front and our clinic isn’t open for drop-in clients today, but I’d be happy to set up an appointment for you, or if it’s an emer—” She broke off abruptly about five feet inside the room. “J—Jensen?” Her voice was faint, breathy, and wavering with uncertainty.

Jensen stepped out of the corner, moving slowly, and held his finger to his lips to signal Alona to be quiet. “Close the door,” he said, the words just loud enough for her to hear.

Alona started, then silently complied.

Jensen hoped it was his earnest sincerity, or perhaps his tone was _commanding_ and not _threatening_ that led Alona to comply so quickly.

“Oh god, Jensen. How are you? What are you doing here?” She demanded, only pausing for half a breath.

Jensen took that as the opportunity it was. “I’m not here.”

She looked up from her gesticulating hands and peered at his face with wide eyes, taking cautious steps forward. “You _are_ here...”

Jensen realized what was happening. Alona was staring at him as if he’d lost touch with reality, immersed himself so deep in one of his good old Walter Mitty-style fantasies—and god, it had been far too long since he’d had one of those—and never came out. “Alona, I mean officially. This conversation isn’t taking place. You never saw me. There was no one in the conference room—or if there was, you told them when to come back for a clinic. I’m not here.” He repeated the words, his voice grim, pleading that she’d understand.

Emotions flashed rapid-fire behind her eyes—comprehension, anger, fear, relief, grief, frustration. She blinked, nodded, and closed the distance between them. “We’ve been so worried,” she said, something hollow, broken, and bereft breaking through the facade of calm.

“I’m sorry. You know I would have—” _called, visited, found a way to send word, never have left in the first place._ Jensen flapped his hand in frustration. There was nothing he could say that would express six months of having the universe turned inside out while living in constant, ever-increasing fear while cut off from his life and almost everyone he loved, his world narrowed down to a gargantuan secret and a tiny cluster of people living the same ghostly existence.

Alona seemed to get it and nodded solemnly. “Does this have something to do with Misha?” she asked, voice small and tinged with guilt. “I haven’t been able to reach him—either—and the last few times I’ve been by the office it was closed. It seems like there’s been no one there for months even if some receptionist does answer the phone. Are you alright? Is Misha?”

 _She’s been calling Misha’s office, and she said “either,” which means she’s been calling around..._ The vestiges of guilt that had been lurking in Jensen’s subconscious vanished and peace infused him. He’d done the right thing. Even if Alona had been exceedingly careful in her inquiries—and she probably had been knowing her caution and the influence Nikki’s pragmatic paranoia likely had under the circumstances—there was all too high a chance someone at ORDA would get itchy and come knocking. Whatever risk he was adding by coming here, she needed a fighting chance. Without the protection the nanolumes would provide, Alona would be disappeared in a snap. He couldn’t let that happen, not when he was the one who’d gotten her—her and Nikki—into this mess.

“Stop.” He held up his hand. “Look, I can’t— Misha—” his chest heaved with a sigh as he tripped and stumbled over every false start. “It’s not what you think... not _how_ you think. And no matter how much I might want to tell you, I can’t. And you—all of you, are safer not knowing.”

Alona scowled and began to open her mouth, but a shake of Jensen’s head had her jaw snapping shut again.

“I know what it must sound like—especially coming from me. I swear I haven’t lost all my principles. It’s just—I’m putting everyone in danger by being here, and I’m sorry. But I had to come. And if you’ve been asking about me, about Misha—chances are you’re already in danger. I can’t tell you what from, and I can’t tell you why, and I wish I could more than a—anything.” The word caught in his throat. He hadn’t realized how much he missed _everyone_ from his life until he was here, standing in the conference room and unable to go any further.

“How did you get in?” Alona asked, seeming to be over her initial shock. She turned towards the windows and peered around, craning her neck, probably looking for signs Jensen had climbed up from the street or repelled down from the roof.

He gave out a clipped, involuntary snort. Either option would be so obvious from the street outside, Alona—and everyone on the block—would have known he was there long before he made it into the building.

Alona turned back at his snort, her expression questioning.

Jensen shook his head. “I can’t say. And trust me when I say you don’t even want to think about it.”

Alona nodded. “Okay.” She bit her lip in the awkward silence that followed. “You know, Valerie’s here, if you want—”

Jensen shook his head.

“No?” It was only a half question.

“I’d love to, but it’s dangerous enough for me to be here talking to you and just you. I came because I needed—” he sighed, glancing out the window while he blinked the tears away. When his eyes were clear, he turned back to Alona, looking her in the eye and holding the contact, unblinking. “I had to come now because I might not get another chance. Things are about to get really, really bad—for everyone—and maybe a whole lot worse for some of us, including me. If we’re really, really lucky? Nobody notices, and you’re the only one who knows.”

He squeezed his hand around the vial. “People may come looking for you. If they do, you have to take this,” he grabbed one of her hands in both of his and slid the vial into her hand, closing her fingers around it. “No matter who it is or what they say, you open that and slide your finger around the inside. Don’t open it unless that happens and don’t hesitate.”

It was Alona who broke eye contact when Jensen released her hand. She glanced down at the small container resting in her palm, her brow knitting in confusion. Her expression darkened, and she started to look up.

“It’s not a suicide pill,” Jensen interjected, hands raised to quiet her.

“But you won’t tell me what it is.” It was a statement not a question, blank.

Jensen couldn’t read the emotion in her tone or on her face, so he wasn’t sure if Alona was accepting or angry, or worse, disappointed. _Does she think I’ve abandoned my principles?_ he wondered. Instead, he spoke. “You know how lawyers all want candor with our clients, but given the RPCs there are some thing it’s just better if your client doesn’t tell you, because if they do, you’ll have an ethical conundrum on your hands?”

Alona nodded, still regarding the tiny container with suspicion.

“Well this is like one of those times. If they come, touch the inside of that container, and it will give you the leverage you need to protect yourself. It could be the difference between life and death.” Jensen projected as much earnestness into his sincere voice, hoping it would be enough to convince her.

Alona regarded the vial again, nodded, and slipped it into the dime pocket of her jeans—good ol’ casual Fridays. “What about Nikki?” Her eyes were shadowed and she looked at her hands, not Jensen.

“Alona, no.” He shook his head, reaching out to pat her shoulder in reassurance. “I would never do something that would protect you and not her—or separate you.”

Alona looked up, uncertain. “Maybe you don’t have a choice.”

Jensen shook his head again. “Nikki’s already protected.” He thought of the warm _pull_ he’d always felt when he was around her, the flicker of power within her. He’d never known what it was before, but now it was clear. She’d been unconsciously using her powers for years. Nikki would have all the leverage she needed. “This way you’re protected to.”

“If this is so great,” she said, holding the vial in a pincer grip and waving it in Jensen’s face, “then why don’t I just open this and—touch—it now?”

“I can’t stop you if you really want to, and frankly, that’s got to be your choice.” He blinked _hard_ , squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to force out the thought-images of ORDA personnel imposing their will on others, deciding who was exposed to nanolumes and who wasn’t. No opportunity for self-determination. “But if you do,” he gritted out as he reeled his mind back to the present, forcing his eyes open, “you need to make an informed decision.” He met Alona’s eyes. “I can’t tell you everything I should be able to without making this situation worse for everyone, but you have to know, I you open the vial now, there’s a really good chance you’ll get caught up in this no matter what you do, and that’s a prospect that could be lethal.” He paused, judging Alona’s reaction.

She didn’t give anything away.

“But if you wait, then you might manage to get through what’s coming without needing that,” he pointed at the vial, “at all. And there will be a lot more doors open to you if you don’t. A lot fewer… complications.”

Alona looked at the vial again, focusing hard. “Does that mean a lot of doors are closed to Nikki?” Her words were clipped, restrained.

Jensen let out a frustrated sigh. “As long as she stays off their radar—a skill for which she seems to have considerable talent,” he couldn’t stop the smile that came with thinking about Nikki’s amazing knack for avoiding trouble wherever it tried to find her, “—they’re all open for her.”

“If she gets on their radar?” Alona asked warily.

“Use that; if she’s already disappeared, start calling around again in earnest. They’ll come for you, and you’ll be ready,” Jensen said. “I—I can’t emphasize enough; I really hope it doesn’t come to that.” He took a long, shuddering breath to free his mind of pictures that flashed before his eyes—Nikki in a medical suite in restraints, tubes hooked up to her body for experimentation; Alona fighting for her life; Alona dead.

“You really can’t tell me—who _they_ are or where you’ve been or what’s happening?” Alona asked resignedly.

“No. And I promise you it’s got nothing to do with sexism or chauvinism or abandoning my principles or any other character disparagement you might be thinking about me at the moment. Telling you would make things much, much worse for you and Nikki, and it _would_ get me killed. You don’t want to know,” he added with a sad murmur.

“I get it,” Alona said, looking up from the vial. “Well, as much as I can under the circumstances,” she added with a melancholy snort.

“Good, good,” Jensen murmured smiling at her at last. He wanted to stay. He wanted so badly it ached, but he couldn’t, and he had to leave before ORDA got suspicious. “Look, I gotta—can I give you a hug?”

Alona laughed, a little bitter and broken, but a laugh nonetheless. “Sure,” she said as she pulled Jensen in for a bone-crushing hug. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” he murmured. They stayed that way for almost a minute until the clock in Jensen’s head ticked into the red zone. He pulled back. “Really gotta go now, sorry.”

“How—” she looked around, “I don’t want to know, right?”

Jensen gave a sad little nod. “Just go back to your office and remember I was never here.”

“Right.”

There was an awkward pause where it was clear neither of them wanted to go or say “good-bye”—the potential finality of Jensen’s visit hung in the air, palpable, between them.

Alona took a few aborted half-steps towards the door while Jensen fidgeted and moved away from the bookcase far enough he was confident he wouldn’t suck half the library into the wormhole with him.

Finally, Jensen mumbled something about “elephants” and “ghosts”—his thoughts so jumbled he wasn’t really sure what he said, only that it was certainly revealing far more about his mental state than he really wanted to share or acknowledge.

“So, see you around?” Alona asked, her voice falsely cheerful.

“See you around,” Jensen replied around the lump in his throat.

Alona turned to leave, so Jensen slipped his hand into his pocket, his fingers closing around the WMD waiting for the moment he could use it. But Alona paused when she got to the door. Her body language changed like a flipped switch. Her spine was suddenly rigid, her movements purposeful, and her eyes—when she turned—shone with a sort of hyper-alert fierce determination Jensen hadn’t seen in her since law school. “Have you ever heard of the Oversight, Research, and Defense Agency—they’re supposed to be somehow affiliated with the UN.”

Jensen froze, unmoving, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. There was no way to respond without giving too much away. He reminded himself to breathe and let his focus get lost on the shadow a passing bus cast as it moved in front of the sunny windows. “If you hear from ORDA again, open the vial.”

“I will.” It was a promise. “Take care of yourself, Jensen,” she called out and strode from the room all evidence of her earlier sorrow erased.

“You too!” he called belated. _Fuck!_ he cursed inwardly. Well that was pretty much a guarantee Alona was on ORDA’s radar and would have an encounter with them again. He’d just have to trust her to take care of herself (and Nikki to back her up).

Of course none of that would matter if he couldn’t stop what was coming. The weight that had been hanging on him for six months seemed to shift, growing exponentially larger, before settling—transforming from a constant pressure on his shoulders to a burning fire in his gut. It brought to mind a line from his favorite sci fi novel, and thought he finally understood what Paul Atreides had felt. _Terrible purpose._

He took another step into the room’s open space and dialed in the location, focusing intently so the mental link would transmit the exact location. He hit the button and stepped into the aperture. It snapped shut behind him with a gust of air, and he was standing in the stall of the men’s room at the entrance to the medical wing once again. The same spot he’d left twenty minutes earlier.

Nothing had changed, only he wasn’t the same person who had left. He’d found what was missing—something to fight for.

~~~

 **Chapter 13:**  
General Ferris had started holding unofficial briefings with Jensen, Misha, and Katie after the official strategy sessions ORDA headquarters was now hosted on a daily basis. Depending on the topic of their unofficial session, sometimes different aides joined them—specialists they individually vetted. “It’s like they’re freaked,” General Ferris said in one of these unofficial sessions. There was no one extra at this meeting though—it was just General Ferris, Misha, Katie, and Jensen. Ferris had even sent her assistant—whose name, get this, actually _was_ Walter, to Jensen’s never-ending amusement—away.

It was almost surreal for Jensen, being sucked into meetings with a _General_ , and not just any general, one of the members of the Governing Council. After six months with ORDA, he actually _got_ what a privilege and unprecedented situation it was. Then again, ORDA was in unprecedented territory—never before had such a large-scale threat come so close to Earth. Never before had ordinary people been threatened. Never before had ORDA’s somewhat endearing dysfunctionality promised to doom the entire planet.

“Well, if the picture Jensen and I have pieced together is correct, that’s not such a surprise,” Katie said, glancing at Jensen to make sure he was on board with sharing this.

It was time. They couldn’t wait any longer. They’d just got done briefing a mission to Alcynon, a rocky, treacherous planet in the same system as Alcalus. Both names came from the Igth, even though they couldn’t even set foot on either planet without protective suits. The Igth liked things that matched and followed a theme, so all seven planets in that star system had names starting with “Alc” or the “Alk” sound, which made it difficult for Jensen to remember which was which. In this case, they needed to go to Alcynon because the jamming field generator they’d recovered from Alcalus worked, but it was missing a key component that would allow it to project the field over a larger area. As it was now, they could keep the Licinians from opening wormhole apertures to very small areas, but they couldn’t keep the Licinians out of any large cities, or protect entire landmarks. Even if their mission to Alcynon was successful, the jamming field probably wouldn’t work, not to save Earth. It _was_ time. Jensen nodded, catching Katie’s eye.

Ferris and Misha were having their own nonverbal debate with raised eyebrows, frowns, and scrunched up noses. “I take it this is something you two have been working on for some time?” Ferris asked, her tone serious, but free of censure.

“Yes sir,” Jensen answered. “Dr. Cassidy and I are both sorry for keeping you and Colonel Collins in the dark, but the information we are about to share is so sensitive and inflammatory, we couldn’t risk sharing out theory until we were sure, or at least as sure as we can be.”

“Are you saying you’ve discovered the source of the leak? Which faction or factions within ORDA—”

“No,” Katie said quickly. “I’m afraid not, sir. Our efforts to determine the source of the leak or leaks, what factions are involved, and their larger picture motives or endgame have been singularly fruitless. This is much bigger. This is about the Licinians and what they’re doing here on Earth. It’s about what’s going to happen, how it’s going to happen, and—”

“And where we came from, as a—a subspecies,” Katie finished, picking up Jensen’s sentence.

“Where _we_? Oh—” Ferris asked glancing across at Misha, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

They’d talked about this. Decided to both accept responsibility. “General,” Jensen began, “the other reason we didn’t tell you is both Doctor Cassidy and I committed a court-martialable offense in the course of our research. Commander Collins figured it out, but we didn’t tell him anything nor did we ever confirm his suspicions in order to protect him.”

“It was necessary,” Katie said matter-of-factly.

“Hold on—” General Ferris said, holding up her hand. “Now that you mention it, I can _feel_ ,” she grimaced as she said the word, obviously uncomfortable with it, “Doctor Cassidy is a Marker. So before either of you go saying something that’s going to be harder for me to ignore, I’m going to acknowledge her status and if it ever becomes an issue, her exposure to nanolumes was accidental, and her change in status okayed by me, is everyone clear?”

Three “Yes sir”s echoed around the room.

Katie and Jensen exchanged another glance, and Jensen began. “It started on my first trip to M’Nell…” He told about the Phvanzi refugee and his tales of invisible attackers coming through strange symbols carved in the rock, symbols that were there when the Phvanzi arrived. He talked about the symbols he’d seen in Misha’s dream, the same symbols that were there when Jared and Misha were exposed to nanolumes, the symbol he and Katie had found etched in the rock. He talked about a Licinian man, coming through a portal in a wall activated by pressing the WMD to the symbol. He mentioned the correlation of seismic events with not just the presence of Licinian strike teams, but with the symbols.

“The Licinians have hundreds, if not thousands of worlds. A lot of them are supposed to be barren, either useful only for natural resources, or inhabitable only by them,” Jensen said.

“The Phvanzi colony that was destroyed bears a marked resemblance to the descriptions of Licinian worlds,” Katie picked up. “And we know from the Licinian homeworld they have these—keys, for lack of a better term, that allow them to open portals _through_ walls… it wasn’t until we realized the Licinian palace is actually underground that we put two and two together,” Katie explained.

That had been the key coming via careful study of one of Col. Morgan’s pre-mission report.

“We think the Licinians have been violating their nonaggression pact for millennia. They visit planets, set up devices buried deep underground that allow them to take advantage of the planet’s natural instabilities and then systematically destroy the planets’ habitable environments. It allows them to eliminate competition with other sentient species, harvest more resources, and claim more worlds that only they can inhabit,” Jensen explained.

“That seems like quite a jump,” General Ferris began.

“It is,” Jensen agreed. “But Katie and I did some more tracking. We tracked incoming wormholes and the intraplanetaries that followed and then we jumped to their locations and observed. For the New York quake, the Icelandic eruption, and the ice sheet collapse, we can confirm Licinians used carved stone keys like the ones I mentioned, to open an intraplanetary wormhole with an exit aperture _inside_ the Earth. The disasters followed within thirty minutes.”

“But why are they doing it here? From what you said about the Phvanzi colony that planet was uninhabited before the Phvanzi got there, and they were only around for five years before everything went to Hell. Why us? Why now? And what’s with the fleet?” General Ferris demanded.

“Colonel Collins understood certain phrases when he was on the Licinian homeworld, between that and the memory transference from other members of his team, I was able to piece together some of what they were saying. They recognized Misha’s WMD as being one of their own. Not similar, but _theirs_. They started talking about traitors and a lost planet—they confirmed Earth was same as the planet where they lost the traitors. We have the same neurotransmitters as the Licinians. We’re using their technology. They were here, maybe thousands of years ago, maybe longer, and they were supposed to destroy this world, but someone didn’t and we got their technology and their genetics in the deal. Now they’re coming to finish us off,” Jensen explained.

“We think they may try to colonize if they can either kill enough of us or get enough of us to leave without destroying the atmosphere. But if they can’t they’re going to do what they did to the Phvanzi colony and destroy us.” Katie looked from Jensen to Misha and back to General Ferris. “From what we can tell, the Phvanzi colony world is so toxic even the Licinians won’t be able to live there or harvest resources for at least a century.”

“We’re pretty sure they’re trying to salvage Earth. Maybe that’s why they’re chucking civilians off the planet, and it’s definitely why they’re hitting smaller targets first. We—I’ve sensed a lock in Yellowstone National Park. It’s over a massive hotspot. If they have machinery there and they let it blow… that alone could render the planet completely uninhabitable by humans. We’re talking mass extinctions, no more home, no more earth. Even _we_ couldn’t survive here.” Jensen said, grimly.

General Ferris was silent for a while, sitting still as a statute. When she finally moved, she stood, shaking, and walked to the far wall, pressing her hand to it to steady herself. “I—if the Alcynon mission is a success, I want to deploy the jamming field around that key. If we can’t stop their access to it—”

“We might be able to go inside, use the key ourselves and destroy whatever device they’ve got down there, stop them from using it,” Katie suggested.

Jensen sighed, sliding down in his chair. “That’s if they’re using a device. It’s entirely possible there’s just some cavern and they’re placing charges, but… I don’t think so… it would be too uncontrolled. I have a feeling the Licinians are trying to control exactly what happens, that’s probably why they built so many of these keys, why the results are so varied. Otherwise they could just shoot a plasma bomb into the crust or something and call it good.”

“I—I’ll take it under advisement as a backup plan. Dismissed.”

~~~

Kane’s team, Misha’s team, and half of Major Harris’s team took the assignment to Alcynon. They knew within five minutes of their arrival that it was a trap. Not certain their intel was accurate, they’d exited the wormhole about a click from the component’s supposed location and planned to approach on foot. Half-way there, Licinian soldiers armed with plasma rifles came out of camouflage and from behind rock outcroppings and opened fire.

Lt. Abel on Misha’s team took a hit almost immediately and got evac’d back to Earth as Katie treated him, with Barnes and Simmons providing escort.

Misha’s coordinates said the component was still about a half click from their current location, in a cave. They could _see_ the cave, only the Licinians had cut them off and had them all pinned between two rows of natural stone pillars arrayed in a sweeping crescent.

“I’m going ahead,” Jared hollered over the constant _kathump_ of plasma rifles nibbling away at the rock. Bursts of P90 fire punctuated each word, echoing off the rock faces, and adding to the din.

“Are you crazy?” Misha called out, “you’ll get yourself killed!”

“Nah, boss, I’m not gonna walk up there, I’ll open a wormhole to the mouth of the cave, pop in, grab the stupid tech, and pop out. That’s if the intel’s even good, I mean who hides a key component to a jamming field in a _cave_? Anyway, if guys can distract them for a few seconds, I should be able to dial in and jump up there.” It was a move they all would have tried sooner, but the terrain was unfamiliar, and there might be more Licinians up ahead, closer to the cave. It could be a great way to slide into an ambush.

It was also the _only_ way they were going anywhere at this rate.

They were arrayed in a crescent, members of all three teams spread out and intermingled. They’d tried leapfrogging forward, providing cover, and advancing rock by rock, but the Licinians had brought in more reinforcements and no one had moved for the last hour. Jensen was more or less in the middle of the crescent, farthest back from the cave they were trying to reach. Misha was off to his left, Jared to his immediate right, and Harris to Jared’s right. He could still see Hodge and Mirakimi, pinned down together a little farther ahead to Misha’s left, and Roberts—the other member of Harris’s team present—was farthest out on the right, beyond Harris. He hadn’t seen or heard from his CO in nearly twenty minutes. “Hey,” Jensen shouted, activating his radio—they were all shouting out of reflex from the noise, but only actually _communicating_ through their radios. “Has anyone seen Colonel Kane?”

Harris came back with the response. “I saw him trying to make his way around at two o’clock. He was muttering something about his radio being on the fritz, and I’ve heard intermittent static since then.”

Misha cursed.

“Hey, I figure he’s got rank, if he wants to be a moron and get himself killed, I’m not gonna risk my neck to stop him,” Harris snarked back. There was no love lost between her and Kane.

“Was he on foot?” Misha asked, back to his calm, cool, collected combat mode.

“I think so,” Harris admitted. “Kinda surprised me since he’s been bragging about how good he is with intraplanetaries,” she admitted.

There was radio silence for a few moments, and Jared could almost _hear_ Misha thinking. He could definitely _feel_ it. Misha was debating whether or not he should let Jared go. Thinking about the importance of the component, the risk posed if Misha was actually the one who had leaked information, and weighing the complication of Kane’s current MIA status. “Alright, Padalecki, you have a go. If you’re not back in five minutes I’m sending Ackles after you. We don’t know how big this thing is anyway, so you might need the help.”

Jensen sighed, hoping Misha would let him go sooner than five minutes.

Jared let out an audible whoop, “Thanks boss, I’m going in five… cover me.” He completed the count down and clicked off the radio. Jensen could feel the displacement wave from his aperture, and knew he was gone.

 _Patience_ Misha thought across their bond, opening himself to Jensen despite the risk that posed in the heat of battle. Short of slipping into a full-on Star Wars-style battle meditation and completely merging their consciousness, too much mental gymnastics could be dangerous in combat.

Jensen was about to reach back and grudgingly agree, when a slick stab of _wrongness_ lanced through his gut. For a moment he thought he’d been hit, physically wounded, but he looked down, patted himself, and discovered he was fine. “Misha,” he called into the radio, too worried to bother with rank, “Something is seriously wrong. Did you feel that?”

“Yeah!” Misha grunted back. “What the hell?”

“Something’s wrong with Padalecki,” Harris supplied. “Fuck. I don’t know what’s—”

“Colonel, I’m going, in after him,” Jensen said.

Several “are you crazy’s” followed him, but he didn’t stick around to listen, Misha was sending his grudging approval telepathically before he grunted it through the radio, and Jensen had already pulled out his WMD and dialed in.

The scene when he exited the wormhole at the mouth of the cave, was not at all what he’d expected. Jared was there, bleeding, and burned, doubled over like he’d been gut shot… with a plasma rifle. His P90 was trained on his assailant, and he was physically trying to protect the component tech, which _was_ right where it was supposed to be, in a large crate in the center of the cave. It looked like Jared had gotten the crate open and was checking the contents when he’d been shot… in the back. The wound was angry and charred, wrapping around his entire left side. With a plasma wound that big, he had to have organ damage, but somehow he was still on his feet.

 _Kane_ was on the other side of the cave, wielding a plasma rifle which was currently aimed at Jared’s chest; his radio not broken, but disconnected. He and Jared were arguing, neither of them had noticed Jensen’s arrival.

“Fuck you, Kane! You should goddamn know better. You’ve been ragging on me for _years_ about what real soldiers do, and how I’m ex-CIA, and you’re an Army Ranger, so we should be best friends, ‘cause hey, our former services work together all the time. You talk about what the _real_ Army does, and how _honorable_ soldiers fight, and then you pull this. I don’t care what the _fuck_ General Lehne told you to do. You don’t follow illegal orders, and that’s an illegal order!”

“This doesn’t involve you, Padalecki. How many times do I have to explain. We may have Marker genes, but we’re not like them. We’re human. And if we keep fighting this war, all the humans on Earth are going to die–”

“Have you not been paying attention to the _humans_ the Licinians have been chucking through wormholes? That’s pretty dead to me. How is not fighting going to help us? Huh?” Jared demanded, his breath coming harsh and ragged.

Jensen could see Jared’s hand start to waver, the gun bobbing as his body was under more and more strain.

“The Licinians only have a problem with the Markers, the _real_ markers. The General has contacts. They’ve promised safe haven and transport for humans or a cessation of the attacks on Earth, as long as we guarantee the Markers don’t pose a threat. That component—that’s a threat, so stand aside, and I won’t have to shoot you again.”

“Was that what Jensen was? A threat? Is that why you helped kidnap him?” Jared demanded.

“Yes. He was insurance too, if we’d managed to get more of that neurotransmitter, we might have been able to help humans escape, force an interface with a WMD and get them off planet,” Kane retorted. “That’s why I framed you too.”

Rage bloomed in Jensen’s belly—he knew he was projecting it and everything else he was feeling across his connection with Misha, in fact, he felt so _out of control_ at that moment, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Harris, Hodge, and everyone else back there felt it too. Kane had betrayed him, and framed Jared to deflect suspicion, and Jensen had _bought it._ Despite how well he knew Jared, despite Misha’s reassurances, he’d still had that doubt, had still pulled back, abandoned his best friend when he needed him the most. He’d let Jared jump into this alone, all the while fearing he might sabotage the component, only to discover he was the only one protecting it.

He could feel them coming, Misha, Harris, and the rest. They were dialing in their WMDs, preparing to make the jump…

 _Only they’d all be too late, because he could see it happen, feel it, a split second before it did._

Jared’s hand dipped just enough that his barrel stopped covering Kane. It was all the invitation Kane needed to open fire.

“Jared, no!” Jensen screamed, lunging into the cave, one step, two, but it wasn’t far enough, fast enough, Kane was opening fire. He leaped throwing himself onto Jared, forgetting for a split second about the component, and realizing a moment later it didn’t matter. If Kane hit Jared, he’d be thrown back onto the component, crushing it. If he didn’t hit Jared, the plasma would hit the component. All Jensen could do was leap… he felt a sudden searing pain in his side, and then the hard thud of falling on unforgiving rock. He’d tackled Jared out of the way, but not enough. He’d been hit in the chest and wasn’t breathing, one side of his shirt, burned away to reveal charred and blistered skin underneath. Jensen was bleeding too, but not badly, the beam had grazed him as he’d flown by… the component, however, was a total loss.

Misha and the rest of the team arrived a moment later, just in time to see Kane open another intraplanetary wormhole and jump away.

“Fuck, no, no, Jared, no!” Jensen was murmuring, rocking his friend to his chest, not even noticing the blood seeping into his clothes. “Please no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Hodge, Mirakimi, take Padalecki directly to the ORDA infirmary. Report to General Ferris what we learned, and wait for her orders,” Misha commanded. He turned to Jensen, maneuvering him off of Jared’s still form so Hodge could hoist him into a fireman’s carry to take back to Earth. When they’d cleared the room, Misha said softly, “Jensen, you were—it was kind of amazing, if it hadn’t been so…”

“You kind of _broadcast_ that exchange to all of us. It was like we were in the room, or you were in all our heads,” Roberts said, sounding thoroughly impressed. “Now that we’re not pinned down by Licinians that were very obviously sent here by General Lehne, can we please go try to find Colonel Kane, and then maybe head home, before the Licinians figure out how to fuck us over more?”

~~~

They’d been gone most of a day by the time they got back to Earth. It felt like much longer. Eons since Jensen’s world had been turned inside out. _Jared_ … He’d let his fear cloud his judgment, and he’d wasted all that time, avoiding his best friend, and now Jared’s life was hanging in the balance. And it was all Kane’s fault.

They’d followed Kane’s wormholes for hours. They’d been through dozens of jumps on and to three additional worlds by the time their readings—both mechanical and telepathic—got too garbled to follow. They’d had updates in that time—twice—when they paused long enough to check in with HQ. Jared was still alive, and improving, but that was about all they knew.

The component for the jamming field was a total loss. General Lehne was still at large, so when they finally returned back to Earth shaky and exhausted, Kane having escaped, the mood was grim.

~~~

 **Chapter 14:**  
“You should get that checked out,” Misha murmured, his voice rough and hoarse.

Jensen had to stop and think for a moment to figure out what Misha was talking about.

“Captain, you’re bleeding,” Major Harris pointed out with a subtle gesture towards Jensen’s side.

The pain caught up with him about a split-second before he glanced down. “Ah,” he gasped as the twisting motion caused one of the charred edges of his t-shirt to pull away from the wound. The plasma burn was crimson and nasty with far too much charred black in it. He couldn’t be sure what was skin and what was shirt. He’d been instinctually keeping his elbow tucked close to his body, but the injury hadn’t seemed so bad. In fact, when he stopped moving, it still didn’t. “I forgot.” He looked up and met Misha’s eyes questioningly. “It really didn’t hurt.”

“Adrenaline,” Misha explained. “Well that and—” he shrugged.

“Some people have a reaction to one of the chemicals the Licinians use. It has an analgesic affect,” Major Harris explained.

“Oh,” Jensen stammered. _Oh great_ , he thought sarcastically. “Just one more way that I’m special.”

The bitter sarcasm in his voice must have come through, because Lt. Roberts snorted.

“I mean, I guess that’s good, next time I get shot, I know the agonizing pain won’t last.”

“Actually, now that you know, you need to be really careful. You won’t be able to tell how hurt you are,” Misha said solemnly.

“We’ve lost people that way,” Harris offered by explanation.

“Great, just great,” Jensen replied.

“Look,” Misha said in his LTC-giving-orders voice. “We’re a little exposed here, and I don’t want anyone brought up on charges for breach of protocol.” They were standing in the lobby of the Health Sciences building not far from where it connected to the hospital proper. “We’ll go visit Abel. While we’re there, we’ll have one of our doctors check out Jensen’s wound. If we can treat it topside, we will, otherwise we’ll keep our visit short and head down for post mission physicals and Jensen can get cleaned up there.”

“Yes sir,” Major Harris said and the others echoed.

A few minutes later, having bypassed security with their IDs and access points, they were in Abel’s private hospital room and Jensen was getting poked and prodded.

Lt. Abel was in a great mood. One side of his torso was in bandages and his leg was in a cast, but he hardly seemed to notice.

“Hey, I got off easy.” His face fell a little when he spoke, the unspoken _unlike some people_ flashing in his eyes. “I’m here, I’m on Earth, I’m above ground even, and they say I’ll be ready for rehab in about six weeks. I am not complaining.”

Jensen shuddered, recalling Misha’s story about being stuck in a Phvanzi hospital on M’Nell for months. The planet was gorgeous, but it wasn’t Earth, and if all your friends and family were _on Earth_ … it could be very lonely.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the doorway.

Jensen and the rest of their impromptu team raised and turned their heads as one. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, and he got the sense no one else had either. It was sloppy and dangerous, it was—

“Did you forget I’m trained to be stealthy too?” Katie asked, as she entered the room, Abel’s chart in hand. She was wearing scrubs with a monogrammed white lab coat, stethoscope around her neck, and blended in perfectly with the hospital’s regular doctors.

“I hear my team is harassing one of my patients,” she said with amusement, flipping through Abel’s chart. “And you, Lieutenant, are overdue for pulmonary therapy.”

Jensen watched as Misha and Major Harris both cringed in sympathy.

“Aw geez, doc, can’t I have a few more minutes,” Abel groused. “Please? I’m lonely here, and I gotta be on my best behavior if I wanna stay up here. I just want some intelligent conversation.”

Katie smiled at him, then shot a glance at Jensen. “I’ll make you a deal. It seems Jensen here needs an eval. I’ll let you stay and chat while I take a look at him, but as soon as I’m done, everyone has to go back downstairs and you have to go to therapy.

Lt. Abel leaned forward, rolling onto his elbow as much as he could manage and peered intently at Jensen, as if sussing out how long treating his wound would take. “Okay, deal,” he agreed with a satisfied nod.

Katie smiled, then she was all business. “Major, can you please close the door?” she asked.

Harris responded with a nod and walked over to the door, closing it and standing guard.

Katie turned her attention to Jensen. “Okay Captain, I need you to raise your arm as much as is comfortable.” As she spoke, she crossed to the sink to wash her hands, donning blue nitrile gloves, snagging the rolling stool with her foot, and dropping gracefully onto it as it glided to a halt beside Jensen.

“Jesus, how are you upright?” she cursed when she got a good look at the angry mix of red and black on Jensen’s side.

“He’s having a reaction to the posiphase from the plasma burst, at least that’s what we think,” Misha offered.

“It doesn’t hurt that much unless I move my arm up and down,” Jensen confirmed, craning his neck to get a better look.

Katie was palpating the edges of the wound with her fingers and poking at something black that seemed to be stuck to it.

Jensen gagged and winced when he realized the black thing was a piece of his shirt melted into charred skin. “Or when I look at it,” he added.

Katie looked up, scowling, probably at how green he’d turned. “For both our sakes, Jensen, don’t look.”

“Noted,” he gritted out between clenched teeth as he swallowed down bile. Instead, he focused on Misha, who was leaning against the wall, just inside the doorway looking fiercely protective, concerned and very, very pissed off.

Beside him he was aware of Katie reaching into her lab coat and pulling out a sensor-and-tablet set that was definitely _not_ found in the lab coats of the hospital’s regular staff. The sensor beeped and the tablet chimed as it received data from the sensor.

“Okay,” Katie said after a minute, drawing Jensen’s attention back. “The good news is I can treat this up here.” She glanced around the room taking in its occupants before shooting Jensen a meaningful glance.

“I’m okay with them being here. They were there when it happened,” Jensen said, a lump forming in his throat. He didn’t say he wanted witnesses, he was starting to really _think about what happened_ and it was scaring the crap out of him, he wasn’t sure who else to trust.

Katie got it, though, and nodded her approval. “Good, I swept this room for bugs an hour ago and no one but you guys has come in or out since.” She glanced at the air conditioning vent. “Any strange noises in the last hour lieutenant?”

“No ma’am,” Abel replied.

“Good.” Katie disconnected the sensor and slipped it back inside her coat, her fingers flying over the surface of her tablet, as her brow furrowed. “Major Harris, in a minute Lt. Barrows is going to knock on the door. He’s one of my nurses and I trust him. He is bringing supplies I ordered. When he knocks, I need you to let him in and close the door.”

“No problem, doc,” Harris agreed with a nod.

Katie put the tablet away and produced a phlebotomy kit from another pocket. “I need to do a blood draw so we can confirm you are reacting to the posiphase.” She looked up at Jensen. “Seeing as how you’ve been running around shooting Licinians for the last 6 hours with a charred, gaping hole in your side, and not writhing in pain, the blood test’s merely a formality. You’re definitely sensitive to it, and that’s a serious concern. Normally we would print that on your tags and instruct you to notify your CO.”

Jensen gulped and gave an involuntary shudder at the mention of Kane.

Katie was looking at Misha.

Jensen followed her gaze and was stunned by the look of betrayal and promise of bloody revenge he saw in Misha’s eyes. He shouldn’t be surprised though. He thought of his own reaction when he’d thought Jared was trying to sell him out. His heart thumped painfully as his stomach flipped and clenched. Jared was his best friend and he’d believed he betrayed him. He forgot sometimes, but for all their rivalry and faux grudges, Misha and Kane had known each other and _served together_ —an experience so compelling and profound, he was only beginning to understand—for seven years. They’d been friends. And now Misha knew his friend _had_ betrayed him. Had framed and tried to execute one of the people under his command while committing treason and attempting to hand another officer—who happened to be Misha’s _husband_ —over to an enemy that was hell-bent on annihilating humanity. That was how Misha saw it, Jensen understood now.

He couldn’t even imagine how Misha felt.

Katie continued, “But given the circumstances, and how it was your CO who shot you, in my medical determination, that information needs to be kept on a need-to-know basis. Jensen, you just have to promise that if you’re in the field and plasma weapons are in play, you warn a superior officer or medic.”

“Okay,” Jensen croaked. He just hoped at least one of the people in the room would be in the field with him. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about trusting or telling the wrong person. Shit this was fucked up.

The knock on the door made everyone in the room snap to alert.

Harris crossed slowly to the door and pulled it open a crack, verifying the lieutenant’s ID before granting him access.

“Here you go” Lt. Barrows said as he crossed room towards Katie.

Katie was busy prodding Jensen’s inner elbow for a suitable vein. She pointed towards the counter beside the room’s sink. “Set it down and hang on a moment.” She tutted victoriously as she slid the needle into Jensen’s vein and filled two vials. She undid the tourniquet on his arm and passed him a cotton ball to hold to the puncture before retrieving her tagger from yet another pocket and tagging both vials. She stood smoothly and walked to Lt. Barrows. “I need these run through secure processing in the hospital. Not our labs downstairs.”

“Yes sir,” the lieutenant acknowledged.

“Good. It says on the tag, but make sure the tech knows reports are to be sealed and results sent only to me. I’ll pick them up. Don’t send over the secure server.”

“Will do.”

“Dismissed, and thank you,” she said.

The lieutenant saluted and hurried from the room, Harris closing the door behind him.

“We don’t know the full extent of who’s on what side,” Katie offered. “All we know is our most secure facility has been compromised; we’ve got a General and a Lt. Colonel on the lam, and an attempted murder. I’m not running those tests downstairs.”

“Thank you,” Jensen said sincerely.

“Well, don’t thank me yet, first I have to get this cleaned and bandaged, and the posiphase will start working its way out of your system soon, so it’s gonna hurt,” Katie said as she returned to the stool, swiveling towards the counter to retrieve supplies. When she turned back she had scissors, forceps, and a squirt bottle of saline solution in her hands. “I’ve got to remove the debris and irrigate the wound, but first, we’re going to have to cut off your shirt.”

Jensen couldn’t stop the chuckle. “God, I feel like some sort of action movie cliché,” he sighed as Katie began cutting up the side of his shirt.

Misha snorted, breaking some of the tension in the room.

“Huh?” Major Harris asked, glancing from Misha to Jensen.

“Captain Ackles was quite the science fiction addict before he joined our merry band,” Katie explained as she cleaned the burn.

Jensen cocked his head, catching Misha’s eye. “You know, I always thought a gig like this would be the coolest job in the world.” He snorted. “Turns out, I had no clue.”  
Jensen yelped and flinched as Katie pulled a particularly big stuck _something_ from the wound. “Ow,” he complained.

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but that’s actually a good sign. It means the posiphase is wearing off and your superficial nerve damage might not be that extensive.” Katie put down the forceps and began applying light pressure around the outsides of the injury. “Does that tingle at all?”

Jensen had to think about it. “Yeah, it does. Is that good or bad?”

“A little of both. If you couldn’t feel my fingers, we’d be looking at more extensive nerve damage. If the sensation was normal, I’d say you lucked out and won’t have a permanent loss of sensation. Tingling means you’ve got nerve damage, but you’ll probably only have some lingering numbness or tingling when the wound heals. Nerve damage from plasma wounds is more common in people with posiphase sensitivities, although the burns alone can definitely be severe enough to cause nerve damage on your own.” Katie said ruefully reaching for a bandage and an analgesic gel. “This should help with the pain as the posiphase finishes wearing off.” she applied the bandage. You’re going to need to change this daily and keep it dry.”

“Okay,” Jensen acknowleged sitting up straighter. A deep, aching pain throbbed through his side. “Aaah, what is that,” he gasped.

“That is the deep tissue bruising caused by the concussive blast,” Katie answered. “Plasma rifles injure two ways.” She held up a hand, staving off further protest. “Relax, I already scanned you, remember? You don’t have any organ damage or broken bones, just bruises to muscle and bone. Take some ibuprofen if it gets too bad. And stay hydrated. This isn’t a very _big_ burn, but it can still dehydrate you.”

“What’s that for?” Jensen asked, pointing with his good arm at the syringe Katie had readied.

“Broad spectrum antibiotic targeted at pathogens found on Alcynon, and the three other rocks you dragged yourselves across.” She depressed the plunger and passed Jensen an orange prescription bottle. “And you get to take 1 every 12 hours for the next 10 days, just to be on the safe side. You spent 6 hours in a firefight with an open burn,” she added when Jensen hesitated to take the bottle.

“Okay, I see your point,” he conceded.

“Be sure to take them with you when you’re offworld.” Katie warned.

She passed Jensen a scrub top to replace his shredded, bloody t-shirt, and motioned to the rest of the team. “Okay, time for you to go,” she glanced at Lt. Abel, “and time for you to go to therapy.”

The haphazard team reluctantly began to make their way to the door.

“Oh, and Jensen,” Katie called after him, “I sent a message to General Ferris and you’re cleared through post-mission medical, but you’ve gotta try to avoid raising any eyebrows.”

“Got it,” Jensen acknowledged. “I’m uninjured, nothing happened in the field,” he called over his shoulder.

“Better stay that way, ‘cause I’m headed back to M’Nell, so if you get hurt, better do it there,” Katie called back.

~~~

Once outside the room, they began making their way towards the freight elevator—the same elevator Jensen had taken the night of the accident—that would bring them down to ORDA, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

They were most of the way there, approaching the last corner before the elevator when they heard raised voices. One, husky, female voice filled with obvious emotion seemed to be arguing with several other people, and she was sounding more and more irate. She also sounded like—

“Genevieve?” Jensen and Misha asked at the same time, incredulous.

“Who?” Major Harris asked, tense and at the ready.

“Captain Padalecki’s wife,” Misha explained.

“Oh shit,” Harris replied, as Roberts let out a pained-sounding groan.

“What’s she doing back here?” Roberts asked.

“Gen can be very... tenacious,” Jensen explained. “She’s not the type to let something go.” Jensen glanced at Misha, “Do we know what they’re telling her?”

“SOP is to tell a service member’s family they’ve been injured and to try to come up with a plausible story that accounts for the severity of the injuries while conforming to the service member’s cover identity,” Misha said, his voice quiet and solemn.

“So...” Jensen sucked in a breath, the pieces slotting together in his mind. “That means they’re feeding Gen a line about what? Gunshot wounds and a firey car crash? No, it’ll be a car bombing, and they’ll blame it on either a climate change skeptic’s group or a fringe environmental cell.” Jensen started pacing back and forth, the elbow of his good arm cupped in the hand of his injured arm, as he rubbed his chin. “Gen will smell our people as government right away. She may think they’re DHS and not military, but she’ll get the gist of it, she’ll be furious, and she’ll keep pushing. And she’ll want to talk to you.” Jensen looked to Misha.

“She’ll want to know if I was there, why I wasn’t there, or if I was there why I wasn’t hurt, what I saw. On some level, she’ll blame me...” Misha said woodenly, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus, it is my fault. I’m his CO. I _know_ him. He’s my responsibility. I didn’t believe the accusations against him, but I—I didn’t support him enough. I didn’t go to bat for him when it mattered. I should have seen Kane was lying—I never should have let Jared go. I—”

“Colonel Kane was your friend too; even if you two always grated on each other, you worked together for years. We all thought we knew him. None of us saw it coming,” Harris interjected.

“We didn’t see it coming ‘cause Kane was acting on orders from Gen. Lehne. We knew there was a leak—General Ferris thought it was a large action, but I don’t think even _she_ really believed it was someone on the Council,” Misha gritted out.

Roberts’ eyes went wide. “Wait, wait, sirs… _we_ know it was General Lehne, as does everyone else who was on _Alcynon and anyone we talked to afterwards. But…”_

 _“No one here knows,” Harris finished._

 _Jensen’s eyes darted between the two superior officers. “Wait, is there even a _procedure_ written for this?”_

Misha shot Jensen and Roberts a warning glare, but the glare was pained and haunted and told them everything they needed to know.

“Fuck,” Jensen breathed. “So, it’s just keep our mouths shut and hope for the best,” he realized.

“Yeah,” Misha confirmed.

It sure explained Katie’s mood while treating him. She had to keep up the act for as long as it remained a secret, all the while knowing how dangerous _Lehne_ was, not knowing whether she could trust his protégés, supporters, any teams he’d commanded or trained, or even other doctors who aligned with his faction.

Jensen was stopped from musing further by the ear-splitting shout that echoed around the corner.

“Where the fuck is my husband!” Genevieve’s voice carried.

An agitated male voice replied. “Like I said, ma’am, he isn’t here, I’m sorry.”

The shouts were followed by squeaking shoes and rustling fabric.

“Let me through, goddamnit! I saw his doctor head this way. Is he back here? I just want to see him.”

More squeaking followed by a grunt. They were definitely struggling then.

“Ma’am, please calm down or we will have to escort you from the premises. Your husband isn’t here. Like Dr. Cassidy explained earlier, your husband’s injuries are severe. It was determined this facility isn’t equipped to treat him.” There was a pause.

The ORDA officers were almost frozen in the hall. Listening intently. Unable to pass. Unwilling to turn away. Jensen had a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach. _That could have been me._

“Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to put your phone away,” the male soldier’s voice said again.

Harris’s head was cocked to the side, listening intently. “Major Simmons?” she mouthed.

Misha nodded.

“Why? We’re in the back of the hospital near who the fuck knows what. I don’t see any signs banning cell phones back here, do you? There’s no machinery around for me to interfere with. So, you say this hospital isn’t equipped to treat my husband, so where’d you take him? Harborview? See, I’m calling them now to—hey! Give me back my phone. Get your hands off me!”

Sounds of a struggle followed.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back and do what the gentleman said.” A second male voice.

“Oh great,” Jensen muttered, “tell me that’s not Sergeant Barnes.”

Everyone knew his voice though, so there was no debate. Two bullies, loyal to Kane, loyal to Lehne, and they were facing off against Jared’s wife.

“This is gonna get ugly,” Harris sighed.

“What are you going to do, shoot me?” Genevieve asked.

“That fucking idiot, did he just pull his gun?” Harris asked.

“Nah, he’s probably just showing it off, threatening,” Jensen said. Barnes had certainly taken pleasure in scaring Jensen that way.

“Who are you? You’re not wearing hospital security—wait a minute. Are you feds? Is my husband in trouble, is this about his work? Did some—”

“What do you know about your husband’s work?” Simmons demanded.

“Doesn’t he know what Jared’s cover is?” Jensen asked, dumbstruck. “He thinks Jared told her?”

Misha was pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look, whatever you think Enviropreserve is a legitimate research and policy organization. If something happened to Jared because of work, it’s probably an extremist group. They’ve interfered before, assaulted his boss once, never anything serious. If you don’t believe me call Dr. Misha Collins, he’s the executive director...”

Jensen watched Misha’s head snap up when Gen mentioned his name.

“Oh no, no, no,” Misha whispered. “Simmons is going to...” _Spill the beans? Shoot her? Provoke a fight? Pump her for information?_ He could be trying almost anything. He was loyal to Kane and by extension General Lehne, and while it was _possible_ he didn’t know anything, didn’t know Lt. Col. Kane had shot Jared, the chances of Simmons posing a threat were just too high.

“What? Wait, why are you looking at me like that. Oh god—was Misha hurt to?”

They could only imagine what the interaction looked like, but it was escalating fast, too fast.

“Ma’am, I won’t repeat myself again, we can’t answer your questions and your husband is not here. You need to go back to the lobby or go home. His treating physician will contact you with more information.” Barnes sounded like he was a hairsbreadth from exploding.

“The cause of your husband’s accident is under investigation and we are not at liberty to answer any—”

“You are feds. No one— Look, I know my rights. I want your badge number or name or any identifying details. I am going to file a complaint, and then I’m going to call a lawyer—my husband’s best friend is a lawyer, and he will do everything in his power to get me answers,” Genevieve said.

“She’s gonna blow my cover and yours and in about 15 minutes an ORDA cleanup team is going to storm into HLD Legal Aid,” Jensen realized aloud looking at Misha. “They _want_ her to blow cover, and we’ll have no control over who storms it—what if it’s Gen. Lehne’s faction?” Jensen had done what he could to arm Alona and Nicki, but if Lehne’s people were out for blood, they weren’t going to play by the rules. They might even engage in unsanctioned killing of Markers.

“They’ll try to shift the cause of accident to something else—make it look like Jared got involved in something risky—” Misha rationalized.

“Yeah, and devastate his wife, smear his name maybe forever, and it won’t matter ‘cause Gen is going to get her hands on a phone. She’ll try my cell, and when she doesn’t get an answer, she’ll call my work,” Jensen realized.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, explain,” Harris hissed as sounds of more arguing came from around the corner.

“We’ve never set up a cover ID for Jensen yet, because there hasn’t been time,” Misha offered.

“As far as my boss is concerned, I’m still on a leave of absence due to a protracted family emergency,” Jensen added

“Only Genevieve doesn’t know that, because she doesn’t have direct ties to Jensen’s job, and it’s easier for long-term cover to keep the status quo until we have something more concrete,” Misha concluded.

“So when she calls?” Harris asked.

“She’s going to blow my cover, and Jared’s, and expose Jensen and all the University researchers on ORDA’s payroll,” Misha answered.

“And she and my boss, and probably some of my coworkers, will be rounded up and processed,” Jensen bit out. Tears welled up in his eyes and he had to blink and look away. Guilt, fear, regret, loss, he was almost overwhelmed by the surge of emotion that tore through him. That could have been him in Gen’s place. It _would_ have been him. And it was his fault Jared was even hurt. Jared had quite possibly given his life to save Jensen despite everything, and now Gen would never know, and she and Alona, and everyone else would either disappear or find themselves sucked into the program. He couldn’t... he couldn’t... “Misha,” he said, turning tear-filled eyes to his husband, ignoring rank and protocol. “We have to tell her.”

“She’ll get sucked into the program.” Misha’s voice was flat, his expression hollow.

“Well, there’s no way around that now is there. Best case scenario, what, they watch her for the rest of her life, you and I get civvie privileges revoked, and she thinks we’re all monsters? That’s not any better, and you know they’ll never go for that.”

Harris shook her head. “Colonel, you and Captain Ackles are far too valuable. They’d disappear an entire company before they’d agree to restrict you from civilian cover, you know that, sir.” She turned and glared at Jared, “And as your liaison officer, if we make it through this, we are setting you up with a cover ID _immediately_. I can’t believe Kane—no, I can, shit!” Harris shook her head in frustration.

Silence reigned for a moment, as the new realizations sunk in. Finally it was Jensen who came to a resolution.

“We tell her, she gets to know her husband is—” Jensen’s voice cracked, “a hero. Maybe she even gets to see him again. ORDA uses her programming skills or corporate connections instead of stashing her in a hole or killing her. And everyone at my job is spared, and their clients keep their attorneys.

“General Lehne will be pissed,” Misha observed.

Jensen’s eyes flashed wide. _General Lehne_... There was something _wrong_ about General Lehne, perhaps... Jensen shook his head pushing the thought away. He’d bring it up with Katie later. “Not good enough.”  
“Jared asked me to protect her,” Misha whispered, gesturing emphatically.

“With all due respect, sir, there’s no protecting her at this point,” Jensen countered.

Misha stiffened at Jensen’s acknowledgment of his rank.

“This is the best we can do. It’s better than letting them disappear her,” Jensen said.

“He wouldn’t want her to see him like that,” Misha protested.

“She won’t care,” Jensen countered. When Misha started to dismiss him, Jensen took a step closer and dropped all pretense. “Misha, that could have been me, in her place. That was me. I’ve gotten the lies. If you’d been in any worse shape?” Jensen shook his head. “I know you wouldn’t want me to see you like that. But I would have _needed_ to, just like she _needs_ to now. She deserves to know.”

“Get your hands off me!” Genevieve screamed causing their heads to swivel as one.

“Okay, I’m doing the talking,” Misha resolved.

“I’m doing the talking, you’re backing me up,” Jensen countered. “Look, she’s going to be pissed at you. I’m in a more relatable position.”

“The Captain does have a point, sir,” Harris offered.

Misha nodded and motioned down the hallway.

Jensen set off at a jog, Roberts, Misha, and Harris following on his heels.

The sight when he rounded the corner sent Jensen skidding to a halt.

Barnes had his sidearm drawn and aimed at Genevieve’s head. Genevieve was struggling, half-wrestling with Simmons who was trying to haul her bodily from the elevator lobby.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Misha growled in a tone that sent both Barnes and Simmons jerking to attention.

Simmons let go of Genevieve so fast, she fell backwards, landing on her ass with a grunted “oof.” She jerked too, maybe recognizing Misha’s voice, and scrambled to her feet as soon as she laid eyes on them. “Jensen? Misha? What are you doing here? Are you hurt?” She waived a hand at Jensen’s scrub top.

“No,” Jensen shook his head, hoping Simmons and Barnes wouldn’t ask too many questions. The glances they were shooting him put them so high on the _not trusted_ list, it was all Jensen could do to refrain from opening a wormhole to M’Nell and yanking Genevieve and everyone else around him out of that narrow hospital corridor immediately. “Gen, how much do you know about Jared’s time in the CIA,” Jensen began.

“I know he was an intern analyst in college,” Gen replied, hesitantly.

“Come with us… we’re going to take you down an elevator to a place you’re not going to believe, while I tell you all about what Jared _really_ did in the CIA, how he got infected by alien DNA, and how he’s actually been a wormhole-travelling action hero for the last five years,” Jensen began. “Then you’ll get to come to a very pretty planet with a state-of-the-art hospital, where you can see your husband, and hopefully help him recover.” He looped his arm on his uninjured side around Genevieve, and led her to the elevator, Misha, Harris, and Roberts, following in his wake, past a thoroughly stunned Barnes and Simmons.

~~~

General Ferris gave them permission to take Genevieve to M’Nell. It wasn’t really all that surprising since it was one less thing Ferris had to worry about. She was trying to work with Li, Johnson, and Bellman to locate and arrest Lehne, but so far their hunt was proving fruitless. It was looking more and more like the Licinians had actually honored at least one part of their deal and had provided at least one nonMarker a way off the planet.

Seeing Jared hadn’t helped assuage Jensen’s guilt. It was looking more and more like Jared was actually going to live—he might lose a lung, but Katie was confident the Phvanzi doctors’ advanced treatments for plasma injuries were going to help him pull through. Unlike Jensen, at least, Jared wasn’t allergic to the posiphase, so he’d lost a lot less blood than he could have.

“Thank you,” Genevieve said, as they sat by Jared’s bedside. “Thank you for letting me know.” She was stroking Jared’s hair while Jensen held his hand. It could have been awkward, but it wasn’t… only Jensen still felt guilty.

“I—I was a horrible friend. I’ve been avoiding him because I thought he might have sold me out to kidnappers. I didn’t want to believe it… and I shouldn’t have, Misha didn’t,” Jensen admitted. “The man who did this, my commanding officer? He set Jared up. Told my kidnappers Jared’s name, so we wouldn’t suspect him.”

“Jared cared a lot about you. He understands, and he forgives you. I know, because I know how Jared thinks. If it’s something he could have fallen for—and trust me, he’s reasonable about that—he’ll forgive.” Genevieve seemed older, more tired than Jensen remembered her.

Then again, this war had been aging them all.

“Thank you… I… I hope he can tell me that himself, someday soon. I’d like to apologize to his face, even if he didn’t know why I was avoiding him,” Jensen whispered, the hope of Jared recovering too fragile still for him to say aloud.

Genevieve bumped her shoulder into his. “Don’t worry, he’s strong.” She looked up and smiled at Jensen, “I know him. He’ll pull through. Just promise me you’ll do everything you can to stop the bastard who did this to him.”

Genevieve didn’t have long to wait, nor was Jensen the one to capture Kane. A report came in an hour later from Col. Peleggi—they’d cornered Kane on Alcynon. They gave him the chance to surrender, but he’d been going on about illegal orders and the punishment for treason being death. He shot himself in the head with his own sidearm before they could do anything else.

“They did find a note with General Lehne’s location on his body,” Harris reported quietly. She, Roberts, and Jensen were tucked away in an airy vestibule outside Jared’s hospital room, while Misha was with Katie talking to Genevieve about Jared’s condition. “General Ferris is coming back here personally to talk to Mrs. Padalecki, but not until after they capture Lehne.”

“They—are we not—” Jensen asked. Maybe it was arrogant to assume, but considering he’d just found out the General had tried to process him like a lab rat and had sold out his entire planet, Jensen had been expecting to get some… _pay back_ , for lack of a better term, by helping in the General’s arrest.

“No—” Harris started, only to pause when Misha and Katie exited Jared’s room, joining them. “We have new orders from General Ferris and the rest of Central Command.”

“We?” Misha asked.

“Given the circumstances, General Ferris has assigned Roberts and I to work with you, Dr. Cassidy, and Capt. Ackles. Hodge and Mirakimi are going to wait in reserve with the rest of my team to provide backup. The jamming net is deployed around the Yellowstone key… it was at the exact coordinates Jensen described. The jammer only works for a 500 meter radius though, and in the last half-hour, there have been three Licinian exit apertures within a kilometer of the jamming zone’s perimeter. If they didn’t know where the key was before, chances are, our jammer will lead them to it, so we’ve been ordered to stop them and hold the key by any means necessary,” Harris reported. “It looks like they’re going for it, sir. Destroy the planet rather than kick us off.”

~~~

 **Chapter 15:**  
The downside to using the jamming field was that it jammed _everyone’s_ wormholes. If you tried to dial in, you got bounced to the point closest to your intended destination outside the jammed area. Of course, without the now-destroyed magnifying component, the jammer only covered a one-klick radius, but the key was situated in rocky terrain, that was steep and treacherous, the ground slick with fallen needles, dense-growing evergreens blocking the path at every turn.

Then there was the matter of avoiding the Licinian scouting parties. Their sensors said there were two teams, totaling twelve Licinians, six to a team. Luckily one of the teams had wandered outside the jamming area on their search, and they were able to get the makeshift team Hodge was currently heading to neutralize that threat.

Jensen, Misha, Katie, Major Harris, and Roberts were still playing cat and mouse about 100m from the location of the key when the word came through that Hodge had succeeded. They’d killed four of the Licinians and captured two, but there were injuries, and the prisoners had to be detained and debriefed—they were the first two Licinian soldiers ORDA had managed to capture alive since the war started. Maybe now they’d get some answers. _If they survived._

It was great news… but it meant Misha and his team wouldn’t be getting any backup.

Jensen kept thinking of the set of Star Wars novels where there was a interdiction field around Corellia, and everyone got _trapped_ unable to get reinforcements or move or travel they way they were accustomed. Only this time, he didn’t think there was a chance they could get through by _skipping_ like a stone on a pond. Maybe that worked for fictional ships in hyperspace, but not for wormholes in a jamming field.

And that was part of the problem—they had no way of knowing if the jamming field would even _stop_ the Licinians from using the key to jump inside the Earth. Was there something different about those wormholes? Or would the jammer stop them?

And they _needed_ backup. Because of their ability to camouflage, attempting to stop the Licinians from reaching the key was much trickier than it sounded. It was tense interplay of observing, tracking, evading. They were hoping to lay enough false trails and distract the Licinian team from their goal long enough for Jensen to destroy the key. If it was destroyed, then hopefully—they’d have another set of angry Licinians on their hands, and not an exploding planet.

Of course, things never worked out that way.

With only five people they just couldn’t cover enough ground. They’d placed the Jammer as close as they could _approximate_ to the key’s location. But no one had actually _found_ it yet, otherwise they would have just destroyed the key in hopes of stopping the attack. The jammer seemed to provide just enough _interference_ and distortion, that the _reach out and touch someone_ approach didn’t work. All of them—Marker and Licinian alike—could sense each other, but it was like shadows slipping around in the dark. The key was another illusive shadow, and reaching out for it seemed to make it harder to find.

As a result, they were trying to guard the jammer and find the key at the same time, and the Licinians played them. Two Licinians _decamouflaged_ immediately in front of Misha and Roberts where they were guarding the jammer. They opened fire, and in the exchange and diving for cover, a third Licinian showed up behind them and fired on the jammer, damaging it.

“Is it toast?” Harris screamed across the now-noisy forest. “I’d hate to think we went through all that hell for it just to have it totally fried.”

Not toast,” Roberts called back, inspecting the damage. “But there’s no way we’re fixing this now. And we’ve got bigger problems,” she shouted back. There was no reason to whisper; the Licinians knew exactly where they were.

;

“Bigger?” Jensen called out, his heart thudding in his chest. He _knew_ … he was springing from his hiding place on his belly between two tree trunks, even as Roberts said it.

“The Colonel took a hit,” she said. Turning to Jensen as he skidded to the ground beside them. “Plasma burn to the side.”

Jensen could see the tell-tale cherry red studded with charred bits of uniform striped across Misha’s side, right over the old scars from the TYngai attack. “Oh shit!” Jensen murmured.

He was injured, his own plasma wound had started bleeding sluggishly again, and his side was half-numb, the numbness had gotten worse since she’d first examined him. Harris had sprained her ankle slipping on a tree root, and now Misha was down too.

“Take a deep breath for me, sir,” Katie said, dropping to her knees beside them, her tablet and sensor already out of their pocket on her tac vest, gliding back and forth over the wounds.

“I’m fine,” Misha protested, grunting, already trying to roll to his feet.

He sounded wrong though.

“No you’re not,” Harris insisted, trying to stop his flight by holding out her hand.

“No, the blast cracked a rib and punctured your lung, Misha ,” Jensen realized; the new wound was directly over the old, and the concussive blast would have easily broken Misha’s ribs.

“Jensen’s right,” Katie said with a sigh. She looked up and met Jensen’s eye. “I need to get him out of the field.”

But something else was puling at Jensen—tugging, the familiar sense of deep power and wrong sameness he’d felt that day he’d touched the key when he’d exposed Katie to the nanolumes. “We—they found it,” he realized, alarmed “They found it, and we have to go. Or it’s all over.”

“I’m up,” Misha said coughing, pushing the rest of the way to his feet.

Sensing his determination, Harris and Katie helped.

“Oww,” Misha grunted. “This sucks.”

“I—I can get us there now.” Jensen had the WMD out of his vest and in his hand as he reached out with his mind, touching the green lights embedded in its surface as he reached out. _There…_ The aperture whooshed open in front of him. “Come on!” He didn’t wait, just stepped through, trusting that the others would follow him, emerging on the other side, all five of them, exit aperture closing with a slap.

They were high—up a steep slope, and far higher than Jensen had expected to find the key, and a stormy wind was howling through the trees. He’d managed to jump them close enough that they were _between_ the Licinians and the key. One of the Licinians—the commander, Jensen guessed based on the way the other Licinians seemed to respond, was making his move. WMD in hand, outstretched, rushing for the etched stone carving.

“Stop him,” Misha screamed, his voice cracking as he strained to be heard over the rising wind.

Jensen was already springing from a lunge to a leap as he tried to catch the Licinian commander and physically tackle him to the ground. They went down hard, landing on his bad side, breath leaving him with a grunt. They rolled, faster and faster down hill at least 30 feet until they _smacked_ into a tree stump. The Licinian was momentarily stunned giving Jensen the opportunity to pull his XDM from his holster and fire. Three shots later, the Licinian fell back, dead. He scrambled to his feet, squeezing his WMD again, knowing he’d never make it back up hill in time on foot.

Katie was closest to the key, and took the more direct approach. She flung herself against the stone key itself, trying to block the second-tallest Licinian from accessing the portal. Her back was pressed against it and she was facing down the transit specialist’s plasma rifle, her P90 clutched in her hands as she tried to bring it up to fire at the key behind her.

The Licinian charged the rifle.

Harris aimed her P90.

Jensen opened the aperture and stepped in.

As he emerged, Katie ducked, and Harris fired, but the transit specialist got the WMD to the key, causing it to flare blue-white as the portal opened.

Harris and Katie both fired again, Jensen’s P90 joining in, but it had no effect. They hit the Licinians, but not the key behind the portal.

The Licinians glided inside, and the aperture shut before they could be stopped.

“What—what do we do?” Roberts asked, her mouth gaping. She was panting from her own—successful—struggle with one of the Licinians. With the one she’d taken out, and the commander Jensen had killed, only four had made it inside. But that was still four too many.

“We—” Misha gulped, panic consuming him, pushing away the hope.

Jensen could feel Misha’s thought _I guess it’s game over, now_ , his disbelief coloring his mental voice.

“No, no. We are _not_ giving up. I am not fucking losing _anything_ more to these bastards.

“Jensen—Captain—” Misha started.

“Don’t ‘captain,’ me!” Jensen retorted. “You’re scared shitless; we all are. This is me speaking as your husband, Misha, think!”

“I hate to interrupt, but Misha really needs medical attention—more than I can do for him here, and soon.” Katie said.

“I’ll go—look no, Misha, Colonel, I’m better at controlling intraplanetary wormholes than anyone. I can do this. I can get inside without getting killed, and I can stop them. Just—just get out of here. Get back to _M’Nell_ ”

“I’ll—I’ll go with you—” Katie started.

“Katie, no, you’re the doctor, Misha needs you,” Jensen protested.

“After you, I’ve clocked more intraplanetaries than anyone else. You know that. You’re not going on a suicide mission, I’m going with you,” he insisted.

“Ackles, Cassidy,” Misha’s voice was gravelly. “Do what you can. If you can’t stop them, get out; we have to know what’s happening. You have to come back. Roberts, Harris, you’re with me. If they can’t stop it, we’ll need your help for evac. Right now, I need you to help me out of here.”

“I love you,” Jensen called out.

“Love you too,” Misha confirmed. “Now everybody—go!”

 

~~~

The experience of touching the key with the WMD in hand was almost exactly the same as last time. Jensen felt the pull, the need, the sameness, deep down reaching out to him. He felt the danger—this time hot and roiling, and over whelming in its incomprehensible enormity. He could feel it pulling him, taunting him. Trying to make him go the wrong way, but then, inside it, he could _see_ it, a clear path, shining bright in his minds’ eye.

“Oh my god,” Katie said, reaching out and clutching Jensen’s hand in her own, when she saw it too. .

The wormhole aperture closed behind them with a snap, sending Jensen and Katie stumbling into darkness. The air was immediately unbearably hot, heavy, and acrid. If Katie wasn’t still clinging to his hand, Jensen wouldn’t have been able to tell she was there. He was struck by a sudden wave of searing vertigo that sent him stumbling into Katie, one hand brushing against glassy rock so hot, it could smell the hair and maybe even skin on his arm burning. “Aah, ahh,” he said gagging.

Katie coughed and steadied him. “Come on,” she hissed. “Even _we_ won’t have long in this air. I can smell the hydrogen sulfide, sulfur dioxide... we’re probably breathing in carbon monoxide, not to mention the temperature, if we can’t stop this soon, we’re dead anyway.”

Jensen tried to fight off the dizziness. It was hitting him all at once. Misha was hurt. Jared was still sick. They had one chance to stop the Licinians. If they could destroy this machine, the Licinians wouldn’t be able to render earth uninhabitable. There were still other machines out there, but nothing that should be large enough to get the job done on its own. If they were lucky, they might just buy enough time for the Fropali to arrive in ships before the Licinian fleet had time to land or open fire—no one knew what the Licinians would do if the Fropali arrived and found the LIcinians attacking an Earth that was still thriving and inhabited. And if they were really, really lucky the Fropali would arrive before the Licinians started planetary bombardment. Stop the Licinians once and for all. Make sure no other planet, no other sentient beings, were destroyed by the Licinians’ lust for control and resources. But if they failed... “If we fail, that’s it for everyone. Jesus. I should have said something. I practically picked a fight with Misha, I—”

“He understands,” Katie murmured, her voice getting lost in the growing whine of a capacitor. Machinery was firing up somewhere _ahead_ wherever that was.

Jensen coughed, shaking his head to clear his vision. “Ok, can you see anything?”

Katie moved, probably shaking her head. “No, but I think there’s a path in front of us. The air feels—more open that way.

“Can you feel anything else?” he asked stifling a cough.

“You mean can I feel them? Or the machinery?” Katie asked. She paused. “Yeah... You feel that?” Her voice wavered a little.

“There’s a tug and then it feels...wrong. And it’s getting worse.” Jensen was wracked by coughs. He tried to keep them quiet, but the passage was so _loud_ he figured it might not matter.

“It’s getting more urgent...do you feel that? Like if we don’t move right now the pain will be—”

“Unbearable,” Katie coughed. “Let’s move?”

“Yeah.” Jensen was already moving, putting one foot in front of the other. He couldn’t see where he was going, but he could feel where the air was lighter. Katie was holding his left hand. He kept his right on the P90 clipped to his vest. It was getting hotter. Too hot. His instincts were telling him to turn back.

“Wait, do you hear that?” Katie hissed in his ear at the same time he heard a sort of popping clanging noise.

Air popped and hissed inside his ear; he swallowed reflexively, cringing at the salty tang of fluid sliding down his throat. It was probably blood, but he refused to acknowledge what that meant, lest he turn and bolt or lose the meager contents of his stomach. “I hear it. The pressure’s increasing, and it’s not the depth.” They continued forward, curving to the left as they brushed against a rough wall that melted more of his shirt. They could hear the Licinians now, their melodious voices in stark contrast to the popping sounds and clanging coming from the machinery.

Jensen couldn’t make out many of the words, but he could understand enough to get the gist. The commander was pissed and one of the soldiers was seriously hurt. Danni or Katie must have done more damage than they had thought. The commander and the transit specialist were arguing about something.

“Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Katie asked. “They’ve almost got this unlocked, but there’s a… a delay. Like a primer or a detonator, they need an initial explosion to set of the volcanic reaction.”

Jensen chanced looking down at his own WMD, which he’d slipped into his vest the moment they’d entered he subterranean cavern. “Yeah,” he agreed seeing the all too familiar words blend in with the unfamiliar place names. “But one of them thinks they’re running out of time.” Jensen wheezed and stifled another cough. “I’m not sure, but it sounds like the locks take multiple people to operate and it can be risky for the Licinians if they don’t get out of there quickly.” Jensen paused before leaning closer to Katie. “He’s also worried about this achieving their goal—and something about how there are no other options and no key-to-key travel… lost resources? ” he translated.

“Which means we were right and the keys we destroyed made those locks unusable,” Katie realized. “The way they’re talking, it sounds like they don’t have other teams on Earth that can go after the other locks while they’re here.”

“Or they can’t communicate while they’re in here,” Jensen added. “Either way, that’s good news for us. We should try to find at least one of those keys when we’re done here. Just make sure there’s no way.” Something about the situation bothered Jensen though. There was an itch at the back of his mind he just couldn’t shake, but the overwhelming heat and toxic air was already making it hard to think.

“I wonder why they’re talking about maybe not succeeding. Is there something wrong with the machinery or—” Katie’s voice trailed off at the same moment Jensen sensed danger and movement behind them.

“Fuck!” Jensen hissed, moving as he spoke, sensing the trap a split second too late. He let go of Katie’s hand as he dropped to one knee and pivoted, bringing the P90 up to fire as he turned. Before he could get a shot off, a big, hulking Licinian soldier had whipped the butt end of his plasma rifle through the air, clipping Jensen’s ear as he tried to duck. _It looked like the bullets they’d fired outside, hadn’t done much damage._

Katie, however, was unscathed and managed to bring her knee up to push-kick their assailant away, getting enough space to bring her P90 up between them and fire.  
Jensen could hear the soldier grunt as at least 3 rounds connected. Jensen was rolling, head tucked in tight as his shoulder connected with the ground and the acrid stench was joined by the distinct aroma of melting synthetic fabric.

The remaining three Licinians seemed to swarm into view.

Jensen brought his weapon to bear and fired. He managed to hit the two of them , while Katie hit the third. They fell quickly, but something in Jensen’s mind told him it was almost too late.

The whine was growing too loud and the room was… shaking.

He rushed forward, and soon saw how the machinery must operate. It interfaced with the users much like a WMD with two egg-shaped places to put one’s hands. He exchanged a glance with Katie. “I think this is it—the primer or fuse. I’ve gotta shut this down, Then we have to destroy it!” he shouted.

Jensen pressed his hands to them, flinching as his palms seared in the heat, and began trying to undo what the Licinians had done. The device, the room—deep inside, the roiling magma even deeper down—it was amazing what the Licinians had done, structurally ingenious and visually stimulating, but right now, Jensen couldn’t spare a thought. His only desire was to stop the destruction of Earth. Pressure was lowering, faults closing. The situation returning to the status quo…

A kathump of a plasma blast rang out, and Jensen gasped. It didn’t hurt, but he could no longer keep to his feet. He slumped down the side of the machine, his hands clinging to the eggs.

 _Blam, blam, blam_ came the retort of Katie’s rapid fire. The Licinian who had shot him—the same one he’d shot before—was finally down.

“Come on,” Katie called out, sliding to her knees next to Jensen, their clothes melting and sizzling where they touched the rock.

He could feel her hands assessing him, trailing over his body, or rather he could _sense_ she was doing it, in his mind, because he really couldn’t feel much of anything, his body was already growing numb. He wasn’t sure where he was hit, if they’d damaged his spine, or if it was just his allergic reaction to the posiphase, but he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t really feel anything. All he knew was he was bleeding, and if something didn’t stop it, it would all be over way too fast.

“We need to destroy this, I can feel it…” she was rummaging in her tac vest, and holding up a block of C4 and a detonator. “What do you think, a charge right here?” She pointed at a multicolored panel of rock dimly visible in the room—it looked like one of the keys only bigger and it didn’t _feel_ like a key.

“That’s the computer core,” Jensen hissed, understanding what he was feeling. He nodded. “Do it… we don’t have much time.”

Katie didn’t even pause to nod, had already slapped the charge to the strange design and was bending down, timer in hand.

“What are you doing?” Jensen asked, coughing hard, as the world went fuzzy around the edges.

“Getting you out of here!” She replied, gripping his shoulder harder. “Timer’s set. We’ve got five, four, three, two…” The aperture opened in front of them.

She pushed Jensen into the wormhole, and he slipped into darkness.

~~~

 **Epilogue:**  
Awareness returned to Jensen slowly. He realized he could still feel. He could even wiggle his toes, and the air didn’t burn as it left his lungs.

Beside him he heard muffled voices. It sounded like Jared? And Misha? But Jared had been almost dead and Misha wounded.

“Hey boss, looks like he’s finally coming around!” It was definitely Jared’s voice, but thinner, raspier than it had been the last time Jensen had heard it.

“Baby?” Misha’s voice asked, suddenly close.

Jensen blinked open his eyes slowly and was greeted by a soft greenish light that he had only encountered in one place. “‘M’on M’Nell?” he stammered, his throat feeling gummed and creaky.

Something—Misha’s hand—pressed water to his lips. He took a greedy gulp.

“Shh, slowly, slowly. Katie just cleared you for liquids this morning.”

“Katie made it?” Jensen asked.

“Yeah, she made it,” Misha replied. “Saved your ass, and you and she saved the world. Earth’s still there. The Fropali fleet arrived. The Licinian high command is in custody, and when we’re well enough, we can go home… if you want. Apparently the Fropali are so impressed with how we managed the situation in their absence and with very little background information, they offered to let us come with them to liaise with other cultures that have been harmed or threatened by the Licinians.”

“I might like that,” Jensen agreed, blinking when he saw Jared sitting close by in a wheelchair. “But first, I think I want a vacation—a chance to be with the people I love,” he shot Jared a meaningful glance.

Jared blushed and nodded. It would take time to make up for suspecting Jared, but they’d already sowed the seeds, and their friendship was on the mend.

“And enjoy this whole—victory—before I jump back in the fray,” Jensen added, smiling at Misha.

Misha nodded in approval and placed a long, wet, loving kiss on Jensen’s lips.

Jensen thought of himself standing at a viewport on a space ship. That could be him. He knew that now, and maybe it would be. But the universe was not at all like he had imagined. Reality was full of people—beings—both better and worse than any sci fi he’d imagined. But finally he had a way to be a part of the world, rather than escape from it, and be a real, live sci fi action hero.

Jensen was starting to think maybe he didn’t mind that after all.

~~~

The end!

**Author's Note:**

>  **Acknowledgements**
> 
> Many thanks to the mods at [SPN J2 BigBang](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com) for their continued support, awesome attention to detail, and tireless work in making each year's bigbang come off without a hitch!
> 
> This story would not have been possible without the work of my awesome betas--Carlos and [engel82](http://engel82.livejournal.com). Both went above and beyond the call of duty with late-night re-reads, hand-holding, brainstorming, and all-around awesomeness to help me finish this story. I've played around with it and added a few things since they finished with it, so all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Thank you to my f-listies, especially [stageira](http://stageira.livejournal.com), [sleepwalker1015](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com), and [calamitycrow](http://calamitycrow.livejournal.com) for your ideas, brainstorming help, and all around awesomeness and enthusiasm in the early planning stages of this story. Without your inspiration, I never would have thought this up.
> 
> Thank you all so much, and thank you for reading the story!


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